Long Lost Brother

by Don Kafrissen

  On the way to the airport, Isaac asked Saul about this attorney-client privilege. Saul explained that he was not allowed to repeat anything that passes between a client and his attorney.

  “Good.” Isaac reached into his trousers and withdrew his wallet. He extracted a single dollar and handed it to Saul. “I am now a client of yours. My instructions to you are to never reveal my existence. I would also like you to keep me apprised of their lives, their children’s lives, their health, you know what I mean. I will write you from time to time with my address.” He turned and asked, “Will you please do that for me?”

  Saul nodded, “Of course. Will you keep me informed as to your life, lives,” he indicated Deborah.

  “Yes. Yes, I will, Saul.”

  At the drop-off point, the men shook hands. “I’m sorry your trip was wasted,” said Saul.

  Isaac smiled for the first time, “Not wasted. It is good to know that my brother lives.”

  Chapter 41

  Deborah and Isaac went back to Brussels. Seymour Levintall’s office was closed but Madame LeDuc handed Isaac a letter. Seymour had left him an address where he could be reached if needed.

  They were alone in Isaac’s room, sitting side by side on the bed. “What will we do now?” asked Deborah.

  “Do? I don’t know. What would you like to do? Should we try to find more Nazis?”

  “I think not. It is time to stop living in the past and look to the future.” She stood and pulled him to his feet. Standing close, she hugged him tightly. “I think you should finish your post-graduate degree and then we should settle someplace nice. I will also go to school. I would like to study art, specifically painting.” Then she took his head in both her hands and looked him right in the eyes, “Do we have enough money for that?”

  Isaac nodded and kissed the tip of her nose. “Yes, my dear. Enough for many years. We will be two school children together. Is the university here adequate for you?”

  After arranging with Madame LeDuc to continue lodging with her for an indefinite time, the two walked to the Université Libre de Bruxelles and registered for classes, Isaac in medieval European history and Deborah in art and art history.

  They settled in as friends, lovers, and classmates. Deborah was more fluent in French, but Isaac caught on quickly. They arranged their classes so they could spend maximum time together. Over the next year, they traveled to Amsterdam to sell some of the diamonds, to Rome to see the Coliseum and throw coins in the Fountain of Trevi, and to Florence for the art.

  All this time, Isaac had a nagging feeling someone was following them, watching them. He tried all his tricks to catch whoever it was, but the most he saw was a moving shadow in Rome. He didn’t say anything to Deborah because he couldn’t be sure.

  One day they had just left the Litvak Café when two men on a motor scooter rounded the corner. They cut in and out of the traffic until they were close to the line of parked cars on the east side of the street. Isaac stopped to look as he heard the buzzing exhaust note. The man on the rear drew a pistol, and, as the driver swerved close, shot Isaac. The first bullet hit him in the shoulder and spun him around. This prevented the second shot from hitting his heart. It just creased his side, and he fell behind a nearby car. Deborah covered his body with hers as the scooter sped off. They heard two more shots and assumed they were from the gunman.

  When she looked up, Kajus was running down the sidewalk, a sawed off shotgun in his hand, but the scooter was long gone. “Help!” she cried.

  Laima, Kajus’ wife, bustled out and saw the bodies on the sidewalk. She shrieked and motioned to Kajus, who was just returning. She screamed something in their native language. It sounded like “man padėti”!”

  Kajus dropped the gun and fell to his knees. He placed a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, trying to stem the blood flow. Deborah pulled a kerchief out of her pocket and quickly folded it and placed it under Kajus’ hand. They heard a loud boom from around the corner. A drift of smoke rose above the tobacconist on the corner.

  “Go call an ambulance, Kajus,” shouted Deborah, trying to remain strong.

  “I’ll be all right, my dear,” said Isaac. “It’s just my shoulder and side. Nothing important.” He tried a smile, then passed out.

  “Oh, mein Gott, mein Gott! Isaac! Don’t leave me now, s’il vous plait.” She was sobbing, pressing on the shoulder wound and babbling in German and French.

  A few minutes later, they heard police sirens and the distinct warble of an ambulance. Two police cars and a Land Rover based ambulance screeched to the curb at almost the same time. Two medics and a doctor jumped out and ran toward Deborah’s frantically waving hand. The doctor gently pulled her hand away and looked at the entry wound. Then he eased Isaac onto his shoulder and looked at his back. “Good, it passed through,” he said in French. He looked at Deborah and smiled, “Do you speak French, Madam?”

  “Oui,” Deborah replied. “Will he live?” She held her breath.

  “Yes, of course, but we must get him to the hospital right away. He has lost some blood,” he indicated the pool under Isaac, soaking his shirt. “Do you know what his blood type is?”

  She just shook her head.

  Over her head she heard a voice say, “O-positive.” A young man about Isaac’s age was standing over them, slouched, with hands in his trouser pockets.

  “And who might you be?” asked a police officer, folding back a page on his notebook.

  The young man smiled again and said, “I am just a friend of his. We go to the same doctor.”

  “What happened here?” asked the policeman.

  Deborah threw her hands up and answered, “I don’t know. We had just finished eating and were going back to our rooms when those madmen shot at us!”

  “Did you know them?”

  She looked at him scornfully, “How could we? They were wearing helmets and scarves over their faces.”

  “I will want to talk with you more later,” he said. He took down their address and said he would want to speak with her husband when he was feeling better.

  “He’s not my husband,” she snapped, “though I sometimes wish he was.” She looked up at the young man and was about to say something but the young man gave his head a tiny shake. He looked familiar to her, but she couldn’t place him. Meanwhile, the ambulance attendants had placed Isaac on a gurney and loaded him aboard. “Where are you taking him?” she asked.

  They told her which hospital, and she nodded and said, “I will follow you. I have a bicycle.”

  After they had left, the young man and Kajus took her back into the café and helped her wash the blood off her hands and kerchief.

  “Come,” the man said when they were finished. “I have a car and I will take you to the hospital.” He was just a couple of centimeters taller than Deborah, but something about him made her realize that there was an inner strength that she often found in Isaac. The young man had curly black hair and sparkling blue eyes, but his relaxed manner was assumed, she thought, for this occasion.

  “What was that explosion I heard?” she quizzed the young man.

  He shrugged, “Just two men on a motor scooter having an accident. Or so I heard.”

  She narrowed her eyes and took a long look. “I know you from someplace, don’t I?”

  “Yes, Deborah, we met several years ago.” He held out a slim hand. “My name is Yuri.”

  A tiny smile creased the corners of her mouth, “Ah, the close friend who went to Palestine.”

  He nodded, “It is called Israel now. I work for the government there.”

  As they walked to his car, she asked, “What are you doing in Brussels, Yuri? I mean, was it just by coincidence that you happened to be outside the café where Isaac and I were eating? Why didn’t you join us?”

  He opened the door to an older Opel, faded beige, a nothing car. “I am working. You see, my current job is to watch out for you and Isaac.

  Deborah leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap. In a small voi
ce she asked, “And what are you watching for, Yuri?”

  “As hard as it may be to believe, assassins.”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You’re not very good at your job, are you?”

  He shrugged again, “He’s not dead, is he? And the shooters are. Come, let us go before they connect the two incidents.” There was a hesitation before he pronounced the word “incident.” She had to smile.

  “We in Israel try to keep tabs on Jewish avengers. Believe me, your Isaac isn’t the only one. He is a friend, so you two have my priority, and Isaac is very good at his … umm … profession.” He smiled at her and continued, “We received word from an informer that the former Oberstleutnant you two eliminated in Brazil has many friends and that there was a price put on Isaac’s head.” He shrugged again. “We decided to keep a more careful watch on our old friend and his lovely lady, Deborah. I came as soon as I could.”

  When they got to the hospital, Yuri suggested, “Don’t give the police anything to go on. You two are just students. The shooting was random, and you know nothing.”

  She nodded, eager to get to Isaac. Inside, the front desk attendant directed her to the third floor. The personnel in this hospital spoke Dutch and she wasn’t very fluent in Dutch. The floor nurse, a large woman with frowzy red hair spoke some French, though reluctantly.

  By the time Deborah arrived, Isaac was in surgery, was being given blood, and a very competent doctor was sewing up his wounds.

  A thin man with a pinched face and darting eyes stood nearby. When she was told she and Yuri would have to wait in the adjacent waiting room, the thin man introduced himself as Inspector Alain Gervais, flipping open a leather case containing a gold badge and identification card. “I would like to speak with Mademoiselle about this morning’s occurrence.” He looked pointedly at Yuri and said, “Alone, please.”

  Yuri inclined his head and said, “Of course. I will try to find some coffee for us.” He cocked an eyebrow and asked, “For you also, Inspector?”

  “Merci. Noir, s’il vous plait.”

  Yuri also took his black. “Deborah?”

  “Tea, please, Yuri.” She couldn’t stand the taste of coffee. She touched his hand, and he winked at her, and then excused himself.

  Inspector Gervais turned toward her and asked, “Your full name, please?”

  “Deborah Eisenstein.”

  He wrote rapidly in his small notebook. “And your, um, gentleman’s name? The one who was shot.”

  “His name is Isaac Rothberg.”

  The Inspector’s nostrils flared slightly, “You are Jews then?”

  She studied him for a moment, the answered, “Yes, and residents of Brussels and students at the Université Libre de Bruxelles.” She held her head high and asked, “And you were DeVlag? Or VNV?” These were Belgian organizations that had collaborated with the Nazis during the war.

  The Inspector stiffened. “I assure you, Mademoiselle, I was always a police officer.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Deborah replied, the irony heavy in her voice.

  He glanced at his notebook. “Could it be that this shooting was perpetrated by other Jews?”

  Deborah laughed. “Or perhaps by former Nazis or collaborators or the new neo-Nazi groups?” She touched his arm, “Inspector, there is no one in particular that we suspect. I am sure you will investigate this crime as thoroughly as you investigated crimes during the occupation.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Please excuse me, sir. I am very upset by what happened.”

  He flipped his notebook closed and, after giving her a haughty look, angrily strode out. Yuri was just coming through the door with a small tray with three cups on it when Inspector Gervais breezed by. Yuri called to him, “Your coffee, Monsieur Inspector?”

  He just called back, “Bah!”

  They went to see if Isaac was out of surgery. A nurse directed them to a room at the end of the corridor, just outside the operating room. Isaac was just coming out of the anesthetic. He was shaking his head and smiling when he saw them. “So, I am alive another day?” He caught sight of Yuri over Deborah’s shoulder. “Is that you, my friend Yuri?”

  “Yes, Isaac, it is. How are you feeling?”

  Deborah had pulled a chair near the bed and was clutching Isaac’s hand. She whispered, “He looks different.”

  Yuri overheard and said, “I am different, Deborah. A few years older, a little weight on and different hair.” He pulled another chair close and said in a low voice, “I work for Mossad now, Isaac.”

  Isaac nodded, “Ah, I see. The organization that took over from Irgun?”

  Yuri shrugged, “Let’s say that we merged Irgun, Stern Gang, Zionists, Haganah, and any of the smaller right wing groups fighting the British and then the Arabs. We work with the Israeli Defense Forces, but mostly we report directly to the Prime Minister.

  “So what are you doing in Brussels? Rooting out bad men?” Isaac grinned.

  Yuri pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. He moved his eyes, indicating Deborah, questioning her presence. Isaac nodded, “You can talk in front of her. Anything you have to say, I would probably discuss with her later anyway. She has been with me on an operation.”

  Yuri nodded, still not sure. “I and a couple more operatives were ordered to keep an eye on you.” He indicated the shoulder bandage, “Sorry we weren’t quicker.”

  Isaac was surprised, “And who ordered this?”

  “You remember our old friend and instructor, Zvi?”

  Isaac nodded again.

  Yuri continued, “He is now the head of my division, which used to be called the Shin Bet but now is Kidon. We do, um, wet work when needed. Zvi wants you to come home.”

  Isaac considered, looking at Deborah. “No,” she said. “Hasn’t this taught you anything? Isaac, it’s time to stop. The next one will only kill you.” She stood and drew back from the two men. “No, no, no. I cannot be part of this killing any more. I thought that once the war was over and I found myself still alive, I would be done with it all. Then I found you, my love, my heart, and yet the killing goes on. Now we are doing it instead of the Nazis, but it is still killing.” She waved a hand at them. “No, no more for me. If you keep up with this insanity, I am going back to Paris. I will become a painter or an office clerk or a street sweeper, but no ̶ more ̶ killing!”

  Isaac and Yuri looked at each other. Isaac threw up his hands, flinching in pain as the motion pulled at his wounded shoulder. “You heard her, Yuri. I will teach if I can at the Mossad, but no more field operations for me.”

  “I was hoping that’s what you would say. After all, you are no longer a young man.” He grinned.

  Isaac asked Deborah, “Would you like to live in a nice safe place like Israel?” He pronounced it like the old Biblical name Yisroyel. “It is safe there, yes, Yuri?”

  “As safe as it can be. You know that we are surrounded by Arab nations who want us swept into the sea, but besides that, yes, Jewish policemen will protect you.”

  Yuri demanded that they leave as soon as possible. He didn’t know how long he could protect them if some group or other made a concerted effort to eliminate them.

  When they protested that they had nearly completed their university degrees, Yuri assured them that they could complete them in Tel Aviv. “I’ve checked,” he said.

  Chapter 42

  Yuri posted a man outside Isaac’s room and drove Deborah back to their rooming house. Madame LeDuc met them in the front parlor.

  “I just heard what happened to the Monsieur. Are you all right, my dear?”

  “Yes, Madame. However Monsieur Isaac is in the hospital. I am afraid we will be leaving, the two of us.” Deborah ran a hand nervously through her hair. “If you will excuse me, I must pack some things.”

  “Of course, my dear. Do you need any help?” Madame LeDuc was wringing her hands, wiping them on her apron. “Can my nephew drive you somewhere? He will be arriving here in a few minutes.” She looked anxiously o
ut the open front door.

  Yuri frowned. She seemed too nervous. He heard a motor, and a car screeched to a stop outside. He saw two men exit the car, hands reaching under their coats. “Upstairs,” he yelled at Deborah, shoving her toward the steep stairway. “Quickly!”

  She ran and, over her shoulder, she saw Yuri slam an elbow into Madame LeDuc’s stomach, doubling her over. Ducking behind her, he pulled a Walther P-38 pistol from his waistband and fired at the first man who stepped through the door. The first man was a thick, solid man, short blonde hair, wearing a leather jacket. He had a blackened revolver in his right hand, a commando knife in his left.

  Yuri shot him in the right shoulder, forcing him to drop the gun. He was just inside the door and spun but did not go down. With a grunt, he charged the pair. Yuri shoved Madame LeDuc into him and the two fell.

  The second man flattened himself against the wall, firing at Yuri, who was kneeling now. The first two shots went over his head, striking the wall where he’d been standing just seconds ago. With his free hand, Yuri dragged the first thug up against him by his collar. Two bullets slammed into the man’s chest, and Yuri fired around him. The second shooter, a short, squat man wearing a wool cap, went down but still managed to get off another shot before his hand relaxed and the gun fell from his lifeless fingers. Yuri watched Madame LeDuc’s hand reach, crablike, for the fallen pistol. He jumped to his feet and stepped on her hand.

  “My nephew, you killed my nephew,” she cried, her legs feebly pumping.

  Yuri scooped up the loose weapons, and shoved them into a coat pocket. With his foot still on Madame Leduc’s hand he called, “Deborah. Come down, now!”

  She came down quickly, a small duffle bag over her shoulder. Carefully, she picked her way over the two dead men. “You awful woman,” she scolded. “Are you a Nazi?”

  Madame LeDuc muttered something that sounded like “Heil Hitler” to Deborah. She spit on Deborah’s leg. Deborah kicked her hard in the side of the head.