He tried to deafen himself to Ginzberg’s snores at first by sheer mental effort, but this was clearly impossible. He next arose, padded in his stocking feet down the dim hallway to the bathroom and stuffed his ears with toilet paper, but this was in the nature of attempting to stop a runaway train with a toothpick. He finally went over and tapped the old man on the arm, but this seemed only to make Ginzberg snore more loudly. In desperation he waited for the neighbor in the next room to finally tire of the disturbance and hammer on the wall next to Ginzberg’s ear, but either the neighbor was deaf or the room unoccupied, because no such salvation came. At last he gave up. He got dressed, cast a look of malevolence at the old man, and went down to the lobby for a quiet place to think.
The lobby was deserted at that hour, other than a clerk half asleep behind the counter, and Grossman selected a chair beside a dusty rubber plant, and tried to bring his thoughts and his plans into some order. The clerk, noting that the intruder was a guest who apparently preferred the comfort of the lobby to the discomfort of the room—a condition the clerk could understand—put his head back on his arm and drifted off again.
Grossman pondered, his penchant for planning once again given an opportunity for expression. It was obvious he could not continue to room with Ginzberg, but it was equally obvious he would never get the old man to agree to the expense of separate quarters. Eventually he might become accustomed to the snoring, but until he did, other solutions had to be found. The most obvious one, of course, was to be able to finance the luxury of a room of his own out of his own pocket. It would be hard, it seemed to him, for Ginzberg to object. To do this meant a trip to his bank immediately, at which time he could arrange proper funds, transfer moneys where and how he wished, and in general settle the matter of finances for all time. He would, of course, have to make up some story to satisfy Ginzberg’s wonder at sudden affluence right after borrowing the train fare from the man, but a relative in Zurich could serve. A dying and rich uncle, possibly, would be the excuse for the trip as well as the affluence, and they could take up their mission a day late.
Having thought the solution through, Grossman looked about the quiet lobby for some magazine with which to pass the time until Ginzberg’s sleep settled into deep-enough narcosis to obviate snoring, or until his own weariness became so acute as to guarantee rest through any disturbance. But other than an old newspaper someone had discarded, the lobby was bare of reading material. With a sigh he retrieved the journal and prepared to bring himself up to date on Swiss events.
The newspaper was from that morning, or, rather, yesterday morning since it was now nearly three o’clock, but at least it was from Lucerne, he was pleased to see, and was therefore in German. He settled back with a yawn, flipping pages, and almost missed the article through lack of interest. But somehow it caught his eye and he went back to it.
His sleepiness vanished instantly; he felt a shock, almost electric. He bent over the newspaper, gripping it with fingers that ached from the pressure, reading it in total and utter disbelief:
NAZI BANK ACCOUNTS IMPOUNDED
Bern: May 24, by Our Reporter.
By an agreement reached today between the Swiss Government and the Government of the West German Republic, all accounts suspected of having been established in Swiss banks through the deposits of former Nazi agencies, or of governmental funds of the Third Reich by former Nazi personnel, will be impounded until proper ownership can be established. In general, these suspect accounts are those established from Germany or German-occupied territories during the period 1941/1945. Anyone attempting to withdraw funds from such suspect accounts will be called upon to furnish proper identification as well as to give a proper account of the source of such funds. The agreement signed today in Bern will go into effect immediately and will be binding upon all Swiss banking establishments.
The Republic of West Germany feels that this agreement, which has taken over two years of negotiation to formulate, will return to it large sums of money which rightly belong to the government and which can be used for reparation to victims of former Nazi repression. It was felt such moneys were stolen either from victims of persecution or directly from the Reich treasury by dishonest elements in the course of their government service.
The Ministry of Finance, in making this announcement, wishes to advise all concerned that this regulation in no way affects normal confidentiality of normal accounts, for which Swiss banks are so well known.
Benjamin Grossman’s stunned eyes went back to read the fateful story for a second time, and then for a third, although by this time the type was blurred before him. Then he looked at the date of the story: Monday, May 24. This morning—or again, rather, yesterday morning. Had they left Palestine—Israel, now, since a week ago Friday—only three days earlier—three days!—he could have cleared his account before the order went into effect. If Ginzberg hadn’t been so damned slow in setting up their appointment in Geneva, and then if the old man hadn’t refused to take a flight that might have caught him traveling on Friday after sundown but had insisted upon waiting for the Monday flight, they would have been here in time. A fortune lost because one damned Jew was a religious maniac! One more thing the Jews would have to pay for someday!
But it had to be a joke, a practical joke someone was playing on him! It couldn’t possibly be true! For three years he had done everything possible to get to Switzerland and for three years everyone and everything had conspired to impede him in every way. And now that he was finally here, actually in Geneva and only miles from Zurich, he was three days late! It simply could not be true. It was a joke set up by Brodsky—no, Wolf!—in fact, he had conspired with the old man upstairs to make those horrible snoring noises, to drive him down to the lobby and the newspaper that had been planted there; one could get them printed at those specialty shops as a joke on friends. And Wolf had probably suspected for a long time he had money in Switzerland, why else had he tried so hard to get there? It was a joke.…
But it wasn’t a joke, and he knew it. He sat, his head in his hands, wanting to cry but too drained of emotion for even this release. Still, in thinking about it, if Ginzberg’s snores had not driven him down to the lobby and the newspaper, he might well have walked into his bank in Zurich the next day and found himself in more trouble than he could handle. He ought to thank the old man for snoring on that basis, but at the moment thankfulness was the farthest thing from his mind.
What to do?
What to do?
Return to Palestine—Israel—at the end of the purchasing mission? No. No. No! That would be the ultimate admission of failure, the final confession that his three years of suffering had truly been wasted. He would stay in Europe, possibly even try to immigrate to the United States; at least in comparison with Israel these were relatively civilized places. His passport had given him no trouble getting into Switzerland, so it must be a good forgery. For one brief moment the thought occurred that he had given Dr. Schlossberg a large check on that Zurich bank; he wondered if the doctor had ever cashed it. Schlossberg had never been caught, and the check had been for a substantial amount. Possibly if he ever ran into the doctor again he might ask for some of it back.
But that thought was also ridiculous, and he knew it. Ah, the mistakes he had made; the many, many mistakes he had made! But at least with the money gone for all time there was no longer any area in which he could make further mistakes, if there was any consolation in that. In time he supposed he would settle somewhere, get some sort of a job, and find another Deborah. He would try to forget the Deborah in Israel, and try to forget the money in the Zurich bank waiting there to rot, and try to forget that if it hadn’t been for an old miserable Jew who would not travel on a Friday night he would be a rich man at the moment.
But merely trying to forget—or even forgetting, if it were possible—was no answer to the principal question: What to do?
What, indeed, to do …
He was still pondering that question without r
esult when Ginzberg came down in the morning, disgustingly refreshed, and led him off to a cheap breakfast before taking him to their appointment, admonishing him all the way that they had very important work to do and he shouldn’t sit up all night but should get his rest, it wasn’t good for a person.
They spent the next four months traveling from city to city, from arms warehouse to arms warehouse, from fields covered with used battle equipment to other fields equally crowded; for the man in Geneva was only an agent who ran his business by telephone from his luxurious apartment on the Place Bourg-de-Four in Geneva and had never actually seen a weapon in his life. Grossman would inspect the used weaponry, advise Ginzberg as to its utility and relative value, and then listen as Ginzberg tried and usually succeeded in making their limited credits go further. Shipments had to be arranged, proper packaging determined to prevent additional deterioration, freight rates considered, ships’ schedules taken into account, and always the desperate word from Israel and the Haganah to hurry, hurry, hurry! And always the problems of money, credits, payments! The work became an end in itself for Benjamin Grossman, a means to take his mind from his bitter disappointment, of drugging himself to the fact of his failure, to the knowledge that his sacrifices had been for nothing and that with his one great dream shattered there were no other dreams, great or small, on his horizon.
One day they went to a warehouse in Vienna, in the inner city, the First District, west of the Danube. Here used rifles, used handguns, used machine guns of many nations and many calibers had been collected and tossed in great piles with no attempt to separate them or properly identify or store them, as if the owner recognized their uselessness. Most were rusting, almost all had parts visibly missing. Ginzberg, who by now considered himself something of an expert on weaponry—even as Grossman was beginning to consider himself something of an expert on bargaining—made a sour face and turned away.
“Pfui!”
Grossman caught his arm. “Wait—”
“For what?” Ginzberg spat, but carefully, to miss his trousers. “This is dreck. What I intend to tell that momser in Geneva, you can believe! A whole day wasted, not to talk of the fare!”
“Not those guns. Over there.” Grossman led the way to some used machine tools lined up against one wall, covered with cosmoline and Pliofilm from old rifle packing. He lifted the film away and studied them. There were lathes, milling machines, planers, drill presses, crank presses, and the other tools needed for any machine shop. Ginzberg watched the inspection, looking at the used equipment suspiciously.
“So what’s this? We came here to buy guns, not this dreck.”
“With these tools you can make your own guns.”
“Make? Who’s got time to make? There’s a war on, you heard? Anyway, we already got factories to make guns, but you notice they send us out to buy more. You think they don’t know what they’re doing?”
“The war is going to go on for a long time,” Grossman said patiently, and felt a twinge as he recalled these were almost the last words he had heard from Deborah. “You can’t spend the rest of your life combing Europe for guns; we’ve seen almost every warehouse there is. Whatever is usable at a decent price is gone. What’s left is either too expensive or like that junk there.”
Ginzberg tipped back his black hat and studied Grossman. “So?”
“So sooner or later you’ll have to either raise enough money to buy new guns, good guns, or manufacture more of your own armaments.”
“And what do we make them out of?” Ginzberg asked sarcastically. “Kasha?”
“You make them out of rusty junk like that.” Grossman pointed to the piles of rusting weapons. “I rebuilt worse guns with less equipment in a cave at Ein Tsofar. You can probably buy this junk for next to nothing, just to give them floor space, and you can probably pick up the machine tools for not much more. In a short time you can be turning out your own guns.
“Grossman, you’re meshugah. Look! Triggers missing, firing pins missing …”
“So you cannibalize, or make new parts from castings or stampings. Everything necessary is here; it’s no great job with proper tools. How do you think those guns were made in the first place?”
There was a few moments’ silence as Ginzberg’s tiny eyes surveyed Grossman from behind deep-set pouches. He pushed his black homburg even further back on his head, exposing pink skin, and shook his head slowly.
“Grossman, you surprise me. What are you so interested for? You keep saying ‘You make them’ instead of ‘We make them.’ Max Brodsky told me you probably wouldn’t be going back to Israel after you finish working with me. I’ll tell you the God’s truth, I’m surprised you’re still here. So what are you so interested in we make guns we don’t make guns? You going back, or what?”
For a moment Grossman felt anger sweep him. What business was it of anyone what his plans were? He forced the anger back, staring at the old man coldly.
“No, if you want the truth, I’m not going back. It’s just that I thought buying the machine tools would be a smart move.”
“A smart move …” Ginzberg looked around the warehouse, speaking as if to himself. “Well, maybe if we had somebody to put together this factory you’re talking about, then maybe you could have an argument …”
“You have engineers.”
“… someone who knows what to do with all this junk and also knows something about guns …”
Grossman smiled in understanding. “If you mean me, the answer is no.”
Ginzberg shrugged elaborately.
“A pity.” He looked up at the taller man with true curiosity, changing his tactics. “Tell me something, Ben. What do you have against Israel? You had it so good in Germany before?”
“I merely said, I’m not going back.”
“So you were at a kibbutz, Ein Tsofar, I heard about that. So some people like it in the desert and some don’t. Myself, I get hives from the heat, I itch you wouldn’t believe! But Israel’s a big place—” He held up one hand abruptly. “So it’s no United States of America, but it’s no shtetl, either. If it’s big enough for all the Jews we hope come, it’s got to be big enough for Benjamin Grossman. Anyway, you wouldn’t put a factory like you’re talking about in the desert in the first place—”
Grossman had to smile. “I said, no.”
“And all I said was it’s a pity,” the old man said and looked at Grossman’s set and smiling face. He looked around the warehouse a bit sadly and raised his shoulders. “That’s all I said. You heard? Well-let’s go, then …”
“Then let’s go,” Grossman said agreeably, and led the way to the large overhead door. Did the old man really think he cared the least bit whether the Jews set up another arms factory or not? He was merely trying to be helpful, trying to fulfill an obligation to a girl named Deborah, not to anyone else. Or did the old man think the thrill, or the patriotism, of working day and night setting up a factory for no pay, or for very little, in a place he hated would bring him back to Israel? What a dream! It was enough to make him smile, but at least he had to admit it was the first smile he had had for a long time.
It was, in the end, a woman who made the difference.
Ginzberg and Grossman had finished their supper in silence, the old man spooning his soup into his mouth with a combination air of aggrieved hurt and a loud slurping sound, as if his disappointment in the younger man could not be put into words, and with Grossman efficiently silent. At the end, Ginzberg had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the back of his hand with his napkin, and then gone upstairs to their room to try and get a trunk call through to Tel Aviv. For a moment Benjamin Grossman wanted to ask him to speak to Brodsky, to find out if Deborah was still at Ein Tsofar, or how she was, but he knew the old man would only interpret that as a weakening of his resolution about not returning, and at the moment Benjamin Grossman was in no mood for more of the old Jew’s sententious homilies about home and country. Further, it was pointless to think about Deborah. Deborah
was something of the past. He decided that a long walk was what he needed to get Shmuel Ginzberg, Israel, Deborah Assavar, and everything else out of his mind.
It was a rather chilly September evening with dark clouds beginning to roll down from the hills to the north of the city, and with the threat of showers in the heavy air. He had walked for miles, for hours, without conscious thought of his surroundings, tramping the streets of the old city in the direction of the river without being aware of it. His mind jumped restlessly from one kaleidoscopic picture to another. Vienna—he could remember as if it were yesterday, the day of Anschluss. He had been riding in a car in the convoy that had brought the Fuehrer through the streets of the city, and he wondered now at the intense joy he had felt on the occasion. Ten years gone by.… It seemed like centuries. They were still rebuilding the damage done by the idiocy of war.…
Stop! Cut …
No thoughts of war, or of his own idiocy since those days at Maidanek. Think of other things. Remember that boulder-covered slope running down from Ein Tsofar to the sea. Remember the shower of sparks as the first mortar shell struck. The exhilaration, ah yes! The feeling of power! But so soon gone … Think of that slope in earlier days. That hated cell. Remember the sunrise coming over the Jordanian mountains beyond the flat, silvered surface of the water. You had to give the desert credit for spectacular sunsets and sunrises, if for nothing else. But stop thinking of that hated place.
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