“It’s weird, I feel so good now. I knocked on the door like a lunatic and left like a runway model.”
“Because you faced up to her. You freed yourself.”
“I went there ashamed and hurt, and I left proud and strong.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Her face,” Tamara suddenly remembered and cracked up again. “When I said, ‘tell my husband.’ Oh, my God, it’s too much!”
“What do you think she told Arie?”
“Who knows, but I’m sure I ruined their afternoon.”
“I bet he couldn’t get it up after that.”
“He has a problem at the best of times.”
“Really?”
“I wish.”
“What was Rosie like?”
“Rosie? You mean, ‘that slut.’”
“Yes, the witch.”
“Skinny. Ugly. She went white. Her mouth opened like a blowfish.”
“She’s probably had lots of experience with that,” Diana said, winking and leaning across to nudge Tamara with her elbow.
“That’s not funny,” Tamara said. Her face fell and she went silent.
“I’m sorry. I was joking.”
Half a minute went by before Tamara spoke. “What do you think I should do?”
“Really? Leave him or not, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“You know I’ve had a pretty wide experience, in different ways?”
“Yes, of course, so what do you think?”
“I really can’t say; it’s up to you,” Diana said. “If every marriage broke up because of a bit on the side, there wouldn’t be many married people left. Sorry if that sounds cruel. But to be honest, we all know about Arie, and he isn’t going to change. He’s just one of those men who want it all. Money. Power. I mean, look at you. You are a truly beautiful woman, and still he can’t keep it in his pants.”
“Would you leave Peter if he did that?”
“He never would. But what do I know? He’s away for months at a time, it’s difficult, dangerous, he can be lonely, scared. Who knows?”
“How well did you know him when you married? I mean, really know him?”
“As in, ‘really’?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t. We worked together in Europe, that’s all. It was intense, but nothing ever happened. Then when I came here I hardly knew anybody and he took me out, and it all just seemed to happen. And now, I couldn’t be happier.” She touched Tamara’s fingers.
Tamara gave a wistful smile, a smile of understanding and, yet, of regret. Could she ever tell Diana about that one moment with Peter? A moment of craziness, and yet of honesty and love, when all her defenses were down, a true, willing surrender. But, so long ago.
Diana went on, “We hardly knew each other at all. He was in a hurry.” She hesitated, unsure whether to enter dangerous territory, one place they had never been. She went there. It was time. “You know why?”
Tamara nodded. “I think so.”
“It was because of you.”
“I know what you’re going to say. Please don’t say it.”
They both knew Peter had loved Tamara, and couldn’t have her. But he loved Diana now, and that was what mattered. She looked at Tamara, and said it anyway. “Peter lost you and he didn’t want to lose me too.”
Moments passed before Tamara said, “He lost me? Did he ever have me? He knew me for two hours.”
“Those famous ‘two hours.’ It was enough for him.”
“I know,” Tamara said softly.
“I always wondered…” Diana paused, and at last made herself ask, “What about you? Was two hours enough for you too?”
Tamara looked down, and now it was she who took Diana’s hand. She played with her fingers, touched her wedding ring. “You know, you’re so lucky, being with Peter. He’s so loving, so kind, so honest…”
“His business, Tamara, is to lie.”
“You know what I mean. That isn’t who he is at home.”
“Who knows? Really? Who knows truly about anybody? Their thoughts, their dreams, all we know is what they tell us, and what we see. Who knows what we miss? Sometimes I see the two of you together, and I think, I wonder what Peter is thinking? I wonder if he would rather be with Tamara? Is that really over? I see the way he looks at you, and by the way, the way you look at him. I always remember when he told me about you. We were in a little restaurant in Germany somewhere and he talked about you with such love, and then we laughed so much when he told me that he had only met you once. I was jealous even then. I wished someone would love me in that way. So, Peter? Honest? Of course he is. And yet, there’s always something there. In his eye; in my mind; something holding us back. It may all be just my imagination. Or, Tamara, it may be you. And you didn’t answer my question. Was two hours enough for you?”
“Oh, Diana, you know there’s nothing going on between Peter and me.”
“Yes, of course I know. I’m just saying, maybe there should have been. Or could be again.” Her eyes locked on Tamara’s.
Tamara withdrew her hand. “No. Never. Impossible.”
“Sad. But true?” Diana said, with all the burden of her secret world. Working at Mossad destroyed her ability to believe. Faith played no role. Either you knew something for certain, or everything was possible. All options were on the table. Until there was no table. Or no options.
“It’s true, Diana. I could never cheat on Arie. With all his faults, he’s my husband. There’s an Arab proverb: Homes are secret places. He tells me things he would never tell anybody else, that happened to him, but I don’t think he’s ever told me a complete story. He begins, and then stops. Things that the Nazis did to him. Things that nobody can imagine. But the worst thing for him is what he was forced to do to other people. His conscience is killing him, Diana, that’s something you can’t know. There’s another proverb: He who laughs loudest, hurts most, or if there isn’t there should be. The way Arie lives his life, he’s a collector. Of businesses, of women, of people, of things, it’s all because in the back of his mind he is so angry, with everybody and with himself, so hurt. He knows he could lose everything again. I understand that. We lost everything too, but at least my family wasn’t killed. He lost it all. Good, simple things, like his family, giving, loving, all torn from him. Burned out of him. And he was so young. So I hate some of the things he does, I truly hate them and can’t live with them, but I can’t hate him because I understand him, I know why he is like that. It isn’t his fault.”
“You don’t hate him, but you can hate your life with him.”
“Am I crazy? I don’t hate my life. I love my children, I love my home, and when Arie is nice, well…” She trailed off with a sigh.
They sat back in their chairs, gazed around the café. At last Diana broke the heavy silence. “So what will you do, then?” she asked.
Tamara raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders. “What can I do? He won’t change.”
“But can you? Is this how you really want to live? I mean, really?”
Tamara shook her head, her eyes darkened, she brushed away a tear. She couldn’t say what surged through her mind, the truth she tried to bury. What she really wanted was something she could never have: Peter.
MOSHE
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
April 1956
Barely eight steps were possible in Moshe’s living room. He covered them dozens of times before Rachel called out, “For goodness sake, stop pacing. Write the story, already! Do you want some more tea?”
“Quiet. I’m thinking.”
Paul Goldman, his relentless editor, was on Moshe’s back for the week’s column but all Moshe could think of was Tamara and Arie. At first they had all been overcome by Arie’s energy and competence, and overlooked his unexplained absences and short temper. But the unhappier Tamara became, the more it hurt Rachel, and Moshe too.
What could they do, though? Talk to Arie? He wouldn’t listen. In this stra
nge new country where everyone was reinventing themselves, all the traditions and niceties of relationships in Egypt were lost. Here you didn’t gain respect with age but lost it. At the head of the table the virtues of wisdom and knowledge were replaced by money and power, the gentle hand and soft tongue replaced by sharp elbows and a big mouth.
How else could it be, though, in a nervous, scared nation threatened by annihilation at any moment?
Moshe forced himself back to his notes, still pacing. He hadn’t found his glasses so he was squinting and the bobbing paper made it harder to read. He was trying to forge a connection between a report in the South American media and the reality of relations between Israel and its neighbors. The South American report, which had been picked up by the world press, seemed a fantasy to him, manufactured to nurture mistrust and fear. But who planted it, and why? To take Israel and its neighbors to war?
“I’ve found them,” Rachel said, handing Moshe his glasses. “They were in the shopping bag. How did they get there?”
The discovery of his glasses inspired Moshe finally to stop mulling and sit down at the table, where the magic finally happened. Within three cups of tea he had finished his column. “Rachel, listen, it’s really good, even if I say so myself.”
He cleared his throat and began to read.
* * *
“‘Readers of this column will know my distrust of all things official. Call me a skeptic…’”
“No,” said Rachel, “never.”
“‘… yet I distrust all things unofficial too, beginning with what purports to be the Arab war plan for the defeat, occupation, and dissolution of the State of Israel.’”
“What?” Rachel interrupted. “Really?”
“You think I made it up? Wait, let me finish.”
“‘The current issue of Vision, distributed in Latin America, claims Western intelligence agents laid their hands on a top-secret master plan circulating at the highest levels of the Syrian and Egyptian armies.
“‘According to this so-called war plan, Israel’s end will come with a joint Egyptian-Syrian-Jordanian attack, in which Israel’s airfields will be destroyed from the air, allowing Arab ground troops to invade and destroy Israeli towns, starting with Tel Aviv. The harbors in Jaffa and Haifa will be spared, to allow Arab navies to use the port installations after their ‘victory…’”
“‘Victory’? Huh, that sounds like nonsense to me, the Arabs would never…”
“Please stop interrupting, will you? Wait for a moment.”
“‘There will be no air attacks on the holy city of Jerusalem, which instead will be occupied by Jordan’s Arab legion. The Arab victors will then declare martial law, Jewish homes will be given to returning Arab refugees, and the Jews housed in concentration camps…’”
“What?!”
“‘Native-born Israelis will be allowed to remain, and everyone else will be shipped back to where they came from, minus their possessions…’”
“Of course. So what’s new. What didn’t we lose in Cairo?”
“For God’s sake, Rachel, you’re not helping. Wait till I finish. ‘Finally,’” Moshe read on from his column, “‘the State of Israel will be incorporated into a new Arab state called Palestine. Does this sound familiar? During the world wars the British, Americans, and Germans all routinely planted fantastic stories in Latin America. They wanted foreign correspondents to pick up the stories, that gave the plants greater credibility when they ended up in The New York Times, Le Monde, and The Daily Telegraph.
“‘It seems the dirty-tricks department is still in full swing, but whose? After all, who benefits from this scaremongering?
“‘The answer is tiny besieged Israel that wants major powers to sell us weapons to fight off the imagined threat from Egypt and Syria. And listen to Prime Minister Ben-Gurion: ‘The only thing that might deter the Egyptian dictator and his allies from war is to supply Israel with arms sufficient for its defense in the air, on the sea, and on land.’
“‘The only people who fall for such juvenile manipulation are the members of the reading public, who can be panicked.
“‘It is clear that in recent months there has been a terrible increase in fedayeen raids against Israel and retaliation by Israeli fighters. But, people, I have news for you. Israel will not be destroyed. Nor will Egypt. We are destined to live alongside each other forever so we should stop fighting each other.
“‘Let me quote the French foreign minister, Christian Pineau, who said last week, ‘At the moment, there is conflict between Israel and the Arab countries which bears on a number of precise problems. But the essential one, in my opinion, is the mutual fear on each side that they’ll be attacked.’
“‘It is true. What will lead somebody to attack first is purely the fear that if they don’t, the other side will.
‘We hear the drumbeat of war, but it is beaten by monkeys. It is time to set aside the sticks and listen to the sounds of silence.’”
* * *
Moshe set his sheet of paper on the desk and sat back with a sigh. “There; done. What do you think?”
“Really?”
“Of course not. Only if you like it.”
“Would you like some more tea? I’ll make some.” Rachel went into the kitchen.
After a minute, Moshe followed her. “That bad, is it?”
“It’s just, that, well, you’re calling our leaders monkeys.”
“So?”
“Well, whose side are you on? You make it sound as if Israel wants war, which nobody does, nobody at all. Monkeys indeed.” She set the cups on the table with a much louder bang than she’d intended. “If ours are monkeys, what are theirs?”
“Apes, of course. Look, I keep saying it, and unfortunately it’s even more true today than it was three months ago. The leaders of Egypt and Israel are talking themselves into war.”
“Still, don’t call them monkeys and apes. It’s silly. They’re just frightened people.”
Moshe smiled and went back to his desk. Rachel was always right. Sometimes he wrote things just to make himself feel better, knowing she’d object.
He made a few changes, until the last paragraph read, “We hear the drumbeat of war, but we need the sounds of silence.”
That’s better, he thought. Good old Rachel. Less strident, and just as true.
DIANA
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
June 1956
“You want a second round?” Diana teased Peter, who was gasping for breath. She climbed over him, ruffling his hair, and padded to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Peter mumbled, “please. And don’t say ‘second round,’” and then, louder, “You know what that means?”
“Yes, I do. I was joking. But anyway…” Back on the bed and kneeling above him, cool and damp from the cold shower, she drew on his back with her nipples and whisked him with her long hair. Her tongue flicked along his side, tickling and teasing. “Do you…?” She stroked his belly and her fingers fluttered beneath him to the valley of his groin.
“No. No … please…” He shivered.
“With me there’s no such word as no. ‘Please’ works, though.” Diana turned him and kissed his lips, pulled on them with hers, as her fingers closed gently around him.
“Please, no. Let me sleep. Second round tomorrow. Next week. Please … leave me … alone,” and Peter was fast asleep.
* * *
The next day Diana, trying to focus on the intelligence report, chuckled when she came across the phrase “second round.” It meant the anticipated war with Egypt, the second attempt by the Arab world to destroy Israel, but she couldn’t help thinking of Peter and his sweet, relaxed face. He slept like a baby, sometimes dribbled like one too, she could do anything to his body and he would never know. He would be leaving on another job in a few days; she wanted to enjoy every moment with him while she could. What else could she do to him? Her mind floated with fantasies until she sighed and went back to the
“second round” projections on her desk.
Mossad analysts warned that Egypt could attack Israel in August, fewer than two months away. As she tried to read, two dinner-table voices competed in her head: Moshe cursing the foolishness of it all, and Arie shouting that Israel had to attack Egypt before Egypt attacked Israel. Peter didn’t contribute much to dinner-table politics, and nor did his old friend Wolfie, the newly promoted paratroop captain. They were doers, not talkers. All Wolfie said was that if there was going to be a fight, the Jewish state could not afford to lose. The Arabs could lose dozens of times, Israel, only once.
She couldn’t focus this morning, and she needed to because there was a meeting in the afternoon when section chiefs would present progress on a plan of deception the Office was cooking. If Israel attacked Egypt, it had to be a surprise. But how to achieve surprise with the media speculating every day when war would erupt, Israeli politicians competing with dire warnings and the Egyptians with bloodier threats?
She knew that’s what Peter’s trip was about, but it was all he was allowed to tell her, which, instead of calming her, frightened her more. His unit had become the Office’s tip of the spear.
When Peter played with the twins, washed them, put them to bed, it was on him that her looks lingered now. His bent head, his perpetual smile, his lips kissing first one warm forehead, and then the other. Remember this, she told herself. Their sweet little hands in his rough mitt. Print this instant in your mind, you love this dear man, nothing will ever happen to him. Yet at the same time she told herself: Stop it! Don’t torture yourself. Stop tempting the devil.
She loved to see Peter frying eggs in the kitchen, feeding the twins, encouraging them with one spoon and then another, until he beamed when the plate was empty, accomplishment written across his face. He would catch her smiling at him, and he smiled back as their eyes held, and she would blow him a kiss.
Stay safe, my love.
PETER
BONN, GERMANY, AND PARIS, FRANCE
October 1956
For six years SS-Sturmbannführer Hans-Dieter Braun, alias Doktor Lothar Genscher, code name Daffodil because he grew them, had proven a reliable conduit for false information passed on to German colleagues in Egypt.
Promised Land Page 17