Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  “You all know why we’re here so, Professor, sum up briefly,” Harel said.

  Yehuda Shur was the chief analyst of the European desk, although his Ph.D. from Oxford was in Arabic history. He had fought in the Palmach, the Jewish pre-state underground army, was among the earliest Shai agents, and could bench-press more than everybody in the room combined. Peter thought of him as probably the strongest man he had ever met. His hands were massive, he had a wrestler’s thick neck, all he lacked was a broken nose. But his chief contribution to Mossad was his intellectual breadth.

  Yehuda laid out half a dozen folders. “I prefer to stand,” he said. He spread his hands on the table and leaned on them, taking a moment to arrange his thoughts.

  “First, the individuals. We have a list of seventy-one Germans,” he began, drawing a list of names from one of the folders. “We have good photographs of most of them. For example, Army General Wilhelm Fahrmbacher, who served in both world wars. Captain Theodor von Bechtolsheim, a naval genius. Major General Oskar Munzel, a tank commander who developed new armored units for the Wehrmacht. Dozens more like them, veteran fighters and commanders.

  “And then there are true Nazis, SS-men. Leopold Gleim, a Gestapo boss in Warsaw. Willi Brenner, who ran the Mauthausen concentration camp. Many more like them, who choose Cairo today because they won’t be extradited, and they are paid well to keep fighting the Jews.”

  Harel interrupted. “Get to the point. That is all obvious; we can read it in the files. Tell us why it is all so complicated.”

  “America? Russia?”

  “Of course,” Harel said impatiently. “Why else are we here?”

  Yehuda picked up another folder and took out a note. “Israel’s scope of operations is limited by global restraints. In other words, our hands are tied. Briefly, our government and Britain agree that we must stop the Germans from helping Egypt. But America does want the Germans to help Egypt, because a strong Egypt will resist Russian expansion in Egypt and wider afield in the Middle East. A weak Egypt will not. So the more the Germans can help Egypt, the more a strong Egypt can help America against Russia. But a strong Egypt is a greater threat to Israel. So whatever we do to weaken Egypt harms our relationship with America. In other words, it’s a mess.”

  “Is this clear?” Harel said, looking around the table, and especially at the three strangers. “We must proceed with extreme sensitivity and caution, yet quickly and effectively.” Peter nodded, his lips pursed. So what’s new? What do they want from me?

  As Yehuda expanded further on the big picture, Harel interrupted again. “All right, thank you, Professor, we’ll come back to you about cooperation with the British. And the French. But now, Gingie, you take it from here. Rockets.”

  Gingie nodded and began in her rapid-fire high voice, which sounded as if she were hyperventilating. Peter had met her many times. She shared an office with Diana and sometimes came to visit in their apartment. A kind woman, but her off-the-chart nervous energy gave him palpitations.

  “Apart from aiming to improve every aspect of its military,” Gingie said, “Egypt’s absolute priority today is rocket science, especially developing medium- and long-range battlefield rockets. They have recruited brilliant German scientists to help them, in particular one Rolf Engel, who developed rockets and antiaircraft missiles for the Nazis. And of course, Egypt has no clear enemy to arm itself against, other than us.”

  After another thirty minutes of Egypt’s military prowess, rocket development, and the grim contribution of German experts, everybody left the room but Peter, whose head was reeling. He poured himself a cold coffee and wondered where Harel would take this. Now he would hear the point of it all: his mission.

  Harel didn’t waste a moment. “So there you have it,” he said. “Nazis are back to killing the Jews. Aman’s lunatic answer to the British problem is to bomb them. Now guess what their answer is to the Germans in Egypt?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Exactly. They want to murder them, or enough to scare the rest away.”

  “Would that work?”

  “What do you think?”

  “What do I think? What do you think?”

  “I don’t think they know how.” Harel paused, staring at Peter. The silence lengthened. Peter stared back, becoming uncomfortable. “What do you want from me, then?” Peter said at length. Surely he doesn’t want me to do the killing.

  “I want you to go to Germany, contact your Nazi sleepers, make them contact their sleazebag colleagues in Egypt, find out what progress they have really made, and make them leave.”

  “How could they do that, if they’re working in Egypt legally?”

  “Blackmail, of course. And money. What else works?”

  “Does Aman know about this?” Peter asked.

  “Do they need to?”

  “Do they?”

  “More to the point is, do you need to know if they know?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Good. Leave the rest to me.”

  This is like cat and mouse, Peter thought. Those dramatic pauses. What does he really want? “Frankly, I’m relieved,” Peter said. “I thought you were going to say we should kill them, because we can do a better job than Aman.”

  “Should we?”

  “No.”

  “Peter. Never say never.”

  * * *

  That night was hard for Peter and Diana. She wished he didn’t have to go. She wished he would be with her when she gave birth, when she brought the baby home, when she fed the baby for the first time, and bathed it, and fell asleep beside it. She knew it would be hard and lonely but, most of all, she was afraid for Peter.

  She knew who he would be dealing with, for after all, she had been the first to meet them, to wake their lust, it was she who had brought the Nazi killers to him. She knew what Peter could do, but she also knew what they had done and that they were still capable of anything, especially if scared and trapped. At least one would come out fighting; it was the law of averages.

  After they made love she trembled in his arms while Peter caressed her belly, kissing it, whispering to their baby as she stroked his head.

  It was a long, beautiful night, and so was the next, but time did not stand still. The next dawn Peter would leave.

  That day’s first light found him on the closed-off balcony, his hand resting on the wooden slat of the crib that was waiting for their new baby, inshallah. The next generation, inshallah. At last he was beginning to build his very own family that he would love and protect. For each time he discovered some awful new fact about the fate of his mother, his father, almost his entire family murdered by the Nazis, he swore to himself: His revenge would be a large new family, in a safe Jewish country.

  With his backpack over a shoulder, he contemplated Diana, curves beneath the sheet, hair spread around her, secure and snug in their bed. Have a safe birth, an easy one, my sweet wife. Peter Nesher kissed her lightly on the lips, and again on the tip of her nose, and the man code-named Wolf, alias Willi Stinglwagner, tiptoed away to blackmail five Nazi murderers.

  MOSHE and ARIE

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  January 1954

  As Moshe contemplated his visiting grandchildren at play, he knew only one thing for certain: He could not continue stuffing chicken feathers into pillows. Though he had to admit Arie’s offbeat idea was turning into quite a success story. He had expanded into feather-padded winter coats and hats, for export to Germany and Scandinavia, which was like selling sand to the Arabs. And now Arie was thinking of cornering the European market in chicken feathers, which were discarded as poultry waste, and opening up a factory somewhere central, like Belgium or Holland for European sales, but also near a major port like Rotterdam to be closer to the larger markets in America and Canada. The boy had quite a head for business. He was even experimenting with chicken feathers as home insulation for his apartment projects. Moshe wondered: Are there enough chickens in the entire world to support Arie�
��s dreams?

  Arie’s construction business alone was making him rich. But when he, Moshe, tried to find work in his field, Arabic literature and philosophy, people laughed at him. We’re trying to make everyone learn Hebrew, they told him, and you want to teach Arabic? We’re trying to forget Arabic. We want to teach Jews from Arab countries how to be Israelis, not the other way around. Forget Ḥassān ibn Thābit and Abū Firās, study Bialik and Alterman.

  Moshe didn’t have the heart to tell Rachel that he had failed yet again to find work as a teacher, that he had again been politely shown the door of a school building. He found little comfort in Al-Mutanabbī, who ten centuries earlier wrote:

  Never did I expect to witness a time

  When a dog could do me ill and be praised for it all the while.

  Moshe studied his grandchildren, Ido and Estie, playing mummy and daddy with Tamara’s twins, while Tamara gave Diana baby advice. He thought, this country is for them, not for me. They already speak good Hebrew, they’re learning and growing, they’re not in decline. They joined a children’s group where Ido was a natural leader and Estie had the best singing voice. Tamara is bringing them up in Arabic as well as Hebrew, and Arie speaks to them in German. Smart parents. Smart kids.

  “What is it, Abba?” Tamara said. “You look sad.”

  “Nothing.”

  “There’s no such thing as nothing,” Diana said. “By definition, it doesn’t exist. There’s always something. What is it, Abba?”

  The young mothers, lying on the floor, rolled toward Moshe in the chair. Tamara put her hand on her father’s knee. “Come on, what is it, Abba? Trouble with Ima?”

  He laughed. “No, not at all. It isn’t that.”

  “What is it, then?” Diana said. “Come on, two beautiful women want to know.” She put her hand on his other knee. “I’ve had enough talking with Tamara about my sore nipples.”

  “Is that how you talk to your father in England?” Moshe said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I have a lot to learn. To tell you the truth, I don’t feel so good. It’s wonderful to see you all so happy here. But for me and Rachel? I don’t know. I can’t get work in my field, I’m fifty-two, and if someone asks me what I do with my Ph.D. and professorship, I say I’m in chicken feathers.”

  Tamara and Diana fell back laughing, and Moshe couldn’t help a throaty chuckle as he lit another cigarette. “I just don’t feel we belong. I can divide the people of Israel into four, and I’m afraid my place is not a good one.”

  “What do you mean?” Tamara said with a patient smile. She turned to Diana: “For my academic father, everything has three causes, and four parts.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Moshe began, “watching you and the children. This country is for you, not for me. It is for the young. And even you can be divided into four groups. First, there are the Israelis, who were born and grew up here. They fought for their country. Hebrew is their mother tongue, this is their home. The future is theirs. Then there are the Western professionals, academics, from America, Europe. They bring with them their culture and values, and maintain them. You can tell them from their jackets and ties. Then come the European immigrants, concentration camp survivors, who are accepted as weak remnants yet have a place of respect, even if life is hard. Half of them still look sick. But they belong. Then last, and apparently least, there are the people like me: basically, Jewish Arabs. The first three will become one; it may take twenty, thirty years for them to merge, but it will happen. Together, they are the new Israel. But people like me? Dark skin, Arab speakers, desert values? We will never truly be accepted here. I never read a newspaper report on the Arab immigrants that doesn’t imply somewhere that we have to be taught to use a toilet. Or that we sleep on the floor under the bed. The only thing people envy are the amazing libidos of the Yemenites.”

  Diana hooted at this. She had heard the same.

  Moshe shook his head sadly. “It could be funny if it wasn’t so sad. It starts at the top,” he said. “The genius Ben-Gurion. He calls concentration camp survivors ‘human dust.’ He calls Arab immigrants ‘rabble.’ All have to be house-trained, like pets, trained to become like ‘Us.’ The New Jew. Those yekkes, in their European suits and ties, spit on three thousand years of Arab civilization because a Jew from Sana’a hasn’t seen a ceramic toilet before.” He lit another cigarette and exhaled with a sigh. “Chicken feathers!”

  Tamara patted his thigh in sympathy, while a thought occurred to Diana: He is a superb analyst. He exactly summed up the people and our tensions. He is Egyptian, an expert in Arab thought and motivations with thirty years of professional experience. He has an acute mind focused on the contemporary world. My God, she thought, the Office could use him on the Arab desk. We need more people like him. In fact, she thought, from what she’d been picking up around the Office about Egypt right before the twins were born, the timing was perfect. And that made her think of Peter, in Germany, and she felt she could vomit from nerves.

  * * *

  Tamara was nervous too, but for a reason closer to home. Later, after Diana had left with her children, Moshe asked her why. She at first said she wasn’t nervous, and then said it was nothing.

  “Nothing? According to Diana, there’s no such thing as nothing,” Moshe said. “If you’re upset about something, tell me. Or if you like, tell Ima.”

  “No need. It’s four o’clock. I have to take the children to friends. And then I’ll go home.” They kissed at the door and Moshe called after her, “Come visit again soon.”

  Moshe could guess what it was about, but didn’t say anything. Arie. That boy was trouble. He’d always known it. Smart as a whip, but too ambitious, in every way. He’d never be content, at work or at home.

  * * *

  Tamara had promised herself that she would confront Arie that night. She had kept it all in for too long and her anger gave her headaches. He came home late, he was secretive, he was short-tempered with the children, he ignored her, took her for granted. And he was obsessed with money. How much did they need? But again, he usually didn’t get home till after she was asleep.

  In the morning, after the children left for school, when Arie said he had an important meeting and didn’t have time for the breakfast she had prepared, Tamara couldn’t take it anymore. At the door she pulled him back by the arm. His muscles tensed, his arm felt like a club. “Look at me, for once,” she said. “We have to talk.”

  “What is it?” he said, pulling away as if he had been expecting her anger. “I don’t have time now.”

  “You never have time. You’re never here. All you care about is money, and more money.” Her voice was rising. “And what do you do every night, why are you always so late? You hardly talk to me or the children.”

  He struggled to keep his voice calm. “Tamara, I don’t have time now, really, I have to see someone and I’m late already.”

  “Who? A woman?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Who is she?”

  “What are you talking about? I have to go.” He turned abruptly, thrusting out his arm as if waving her away. The light brush from his forearm sent her stumbling into the doorframe. He knew he had gone too far, but didn’t care. “Enough drama!” he shouted, “I have to go now, and stop chasing me.”

  Tamara couldn’t stop the tears. “What’s wrong?” she cried. “What’s wrong with us? What’s wrong with me?” Arie turned, made a move toward her. “Tamara…” he said, but she pushed him away. “Go, then, and don’t come back.” She slammed the door in his face. Relieved, he continued down the path, started the car, and drove away.

  * * *

  That morning was Arie’s third meeting with Yonathan Schwartz, and he was resolved to stop the whole thing right now. If Peter was here they could have maybe handled it differently, but he wasn’t, and it could be months before he returned. Arie had been thinking for weeks about what to do, and he always came to the same conclusion. His only choice was to
meet force with force.

  Schwartz knew about Auschwitz.

  They had met by chance in Arie’s favorite café on Dizengoff Street, which was so crowded they had had to share a table. It was a hot day, and they were two young strangers, both with long sleeves. Schwartz had stared at Arie’s sleeve, glanced at his own, and muttered, “Where?”

  “Too long ago,” Arie said. “Forgotten.” But even as they spoke, each felt a memory stirring. Had they met before?

  The man continued in German. “Wo?” Where?

  “Wie gesagt, zu lange her. Lass mich in Ruhe.” As I said, too long ago. Leave me alone.

  The man’s eyes widened, and he paled, forcing himself not to tremble. He stared into Arie’s face until Arie looked away. The man said in German, his voice shaking, “I thought I recognized you. And your voice, the Bavarian accent.” He half rose in his chair, and sank down again. He said in a faint voice, “I wondered if I’d ever see you again. I heard you survived.”

  Arie went stiff. These were the words of his nightmares. The man had a scrawny neck, thinning hair, hooded eyes, and a deep scar by his right temple. He was clearly afraid. And now Arie remembered. But what was his name, dammit?

  Arie tried to control his breathing. He stood and, without counting, laid a handful of change on the plate and pushed through the chairs on the sidewalk. At the street corner, concealed by a tree, he turned and saw the man standing at the door, talking to a waiter, pointing to their table and then looking up the street after him. Arie turned to go back to the café, to confront him, convince him he was mistaken, but thought better of it and hurried away.

  He carefully avoided the café, but after a week the man had phoned his office, giving his name. The next day he called again, and on the third call, Arie told his assistant to put him through. Schwartz’s threats began.

  Arie, who was twenty-one when he was liberated, had never been a kapo, but he knew he had gotten away with murder, almost literally. He had never been a block captain in Auschwitz, never bullied fellow Jews, or done the dirty work of the SS guards, but as a boxer, the result had been almost the same. And maybe he had gone too far, living a fighter’s privileged regimen of enough food and light work. Maybe he had unnecessarily beaten a few inmates outside the ring, but they shouldn’t have insulted him. He knew that one older man whom he had sent to the infirmary never came back, but he was at death’s door to start with. But then they all were.