by Y. I. Latz
He suppresses it and continues. “We didn’t know what the Yanks wanted from you. I admit, it took us some time. We realized they wanted exactly what we want from you now.”
The pressure in my temples increases—
He resumes speaking. “You don’t smoke, do you? Too bad. I’d bum a smoke off you. Would it bother you if I smoked? No, really—” He’s speaking in a considerate tone, as if we were sitting elsewhere, and our balance of power was equal. “I have half a cigarette left. If it bothers you, I won’t light it. I tried to kick the habit. The treatment cost me a lot of money. Guess who got me smoking again.”
I don’t think he’s actually waiting for an answer.
He lights up the stub of a cigarette.
A sweet smell spreads through my cell.
It doesn’t smell like nicotine.
I look at him, amazed.
He places his finger on his lips in a gesture of secrecy.
And smiles.
Hands it to me.
I hesitate before taking it from him.
Inhale—
My first-ever toke.
◊◊◊
Sometimes they ask me why I don’t kill myself. Considering the severe sentence awaiting me if I’m convicted.
They’re curious to hear my answer, or at least pretend to be. As if it were a trivial matter. They mention the names of various well-known political prisoners from the past, Jews and others, who pulled it off using various means: razor blades, hanging, electrocution, swallowing massive amounts of pills, hunger strike. As they list the various ways to commit suicide, one by one, they resemble salesmen promoting the advantages of the product they are trying to market. They don’t skip any of the suicide methods with which they’re familiar.
I shrug. This gesture evokes an expression of annoyance from them. I’ve come to know that expression. It doesn’t bode well. In my experience, it’s better to keep them satisfied. Nevertheless, I don’t intend to placate them in regard to this matter.
◊◊◊
My attorney is upset. He’s downright furious.
He tells me that the prosecution and the Shin Bet have made a deal with Professor Shin Il Jong’s American attorney, and in fact, with the U.S. government as well. The deal has already been approved by Israel’s state attorney.
Under the terms of the deal, Shin will turn state’s evidence in my case, exposing the full extent of her connections with me, and all of the information I’ve passed on to her.
In return, she will be extradited to the United States immediately, without standing trial. It was decided that uncharacteristically, she will testify from her hospital bed, even prior to the opening of my trial, and immediately afterward will be flown out in a U.S. Air Force aircraft.
My lawyer objects to this move. He demands that we both be present in her hospital room as she gives her testimony, and that we be granted the right to a cross-examination.
The court decrees partially in our favor. As the massive security measures required in regard to me might disrupt the hospital’s routine work, Shin’s testimony will be heard in court, and the state attorney and the police must make the proper arrangements, including transporting her to the courthouse in her bed or wheelchair.
“Watch out, your Korean might become your hangman,” the attorney warns me on the evening preceding the hearing. “It’s too bad she didn’t burn to death. I hope her burns kill her painfully before she testifies, fingers crossed!”
I look at him in amazement.
His outspoken statements are a contrast to his polished appearance.
He notices my reservations and interprets them in a very specific way. “I don’t believe it,” he mutters as if to himself a moment before leaving me. “You’re in love! Her testimony against you will tighten the noose around your neck, and you seem as if you don’t care. Your wife is right. You really are in love with that bitch.”
Chapter Eight
Shin’s Surprise
The day of judgment arrives.
It will be a closed hearing. I was brought to the courthouse in roundabout ways, with an opaque bag covering my head. I wondered how they would manage to bring Shin here in her bed while also maintaining discretion.
We’ve been waiting for her for three and a half hours. Finally, she shows up, standing on her own two feet. This is our first meeting since the incident in the Mount of Olives. I’m as excited as can be.
It’s hard to recognize the woman in front of me as Professor Shin Il Jong.
My Shin—
My heart beats madly within me—
I gaze at her curiously. She’s bandaged from head to toe, wearing dark sunglasses. Lots of security personnel are spread out throughout the court where the hearing is being held, some of them Americans with tiny communication devices embedded in their ears. They are asked to leave. She doesn’t send even the tiniest look in my direction. As if I don’t exist.
The judge asks her how she’s doing. She replies in a low voice, in English, while an interpreter translates her words into Hebrew. She says she’s recuperating at a satisfactory pace.
The judge allows her to sit down while she’s testifying.
The representative for the state attorney begins with a series of questions of which I am the star. How did we come to know each other, where would we meet, under what circumstances did we find ourselves ambushed with burning torches in East Jerusalem, who was responsible for the bite marks discovered on her wrist, who does she believe took her personal equipment, including a laptop and a camera, from the jeep, and what did I tell her regarding the nuclear submarines.
Submarines, submarines, submarines—
She answers all his questions laconically, with only one reply, which is also spoken in a weak voice that we can barely hear.
“Sorry, I don’t remember—”
“Sorry, I don’t remember—”
“Sorry, I don’t remember—”
The prosecutor loses his patience. His questions become aggressive, his voice rising.
But she persists.
“Sorry, I don’t remember—”
The judge intervenes. He reminds her that her release and extradition to the United States are conditioned upon her full cooperation in complying with the agreement she signed and explicitly revealing my part in the espionage affair.
The prosecutor interrupts him. In a loud voice, and in English with a heavy Israeli accent, he repeats what the judge has just said and reminds her of what they’d agreed upon. He repeats the judge’s threats using stronger language: if she doesn’t fully cooperate, in a way he deems satisfactory, she will be returned to the hospital, and the disciplinary measures she will be facing will further increase. “We’ve gone easy on you thus far. No more!” he screeches, all flushed.
She is not impressed by the reprimands and the threats. The judge asks her three times if she understands the severity of her situation. He is not convinced by her answer, and asks her to repeat what he has said.
Shin repeats it precisely.
The prosecutor, utterly enraged, asks for a break in the proceedings for consultation purposes.
She is taken from the court.
The entire time, she doesn’t look back at me even for the briefest moment.
The hearing does not resume. I’m taken out of the courthouse in new roundabout ways and smuggled back into my protected cell in the prison’s solitary-confinement unit.
I suppress my joy.
I don’t know if I’m allowed to grant an optimistic interpretation to her act of sacrifice on my behalf, and whether I can act in a similar manner and repay her in kind.
I know why I’m uncertain of my answer.
After all, there’s no bigger villain than me on earth.
◊◊◊
In the evening, a phone is brought
into my cell. A call from my lawyer. He’s screaming. This time, it’s screams of joy.
“Man! I don’t know what you did to her! ‘Your’ Korean refused to talk! Do you get it, man? You’ve bewitched her! We won! You won! They don’t have anything to use against you! Nothing! Nada! Zip! Zero! Zeeeee-roooo! Hello?! Hello?! Are you there or am I talking to the wall? Do you understand what I told you, or do I have to start all over again?”
“And her?” I ask quietly. “What about her?”
“Man, what do you care what happens to her? That’s what you’re hung up on now? What happens to her? Who cares what happens to her? I don’t particularly care, and I highly recommend that you stop caring, too.”
“Will she have to stay in an Israeli prison?”
“If you insist on asking me what you shouldn’t ask, I’ll tell you, just between the two of us, that the prosecution and the Shin Bet are furious at her. They intend to request that she be prosecuted ‘to the fullest extent of the law’ and be accused of espionage, with everything that entails. But as far as we’re concerned?! What do we care?!”
Chapter Nine
The Kind of Child I Was
My joy is quickly extinguished.
Nighttime.
I hear sounds coming from the corridor before the heavy metal door of my cell bangs open.
Jimmy and Marina burst in, bringing a distinguished visitor with them.
My head flies back.
As if it had rammed into an invisible wall.
Nachmias—
Head of the Shin Bet and the bitter rival of my old friend—actually, my only friend—Singer.
This is his first visit in my cell since I was arrested. Based on the division of authority customary in Israel, the investigation against me is being conducted by the Shin Bet, rather than the Mossad.
We don’t exchange a word or a glance. He positions himself outside my field of vision, while Jimmy and Marina stand in front of me.
I’m feeling a special sort of excitement.
Nachmias is here. What does it mean?
They don’t give me time to delve into my thoughts.
Jimmy opens his notepad, pursing his lips. “There were bite marks found on the hands of your Korean. The DNA tests we’ve run prove that those are your teeth marks. Do you have an explanation?”
“No.”
He places an enlarged photocopy of a newspaper clipping on the table between us. “Does this look familiar?”
“No,” I lie. It’s a survival instinct: deny everything.
“Look carefully.”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I choose to say.
“Okaaaay then. I’ll summarize the story for you. Correct me if you note any errors. Okay?”
I nod.
He continues. “This is a story published at the end of 1981, in the British newspaper The Telegraph. It says here that three thirteen-year-old boys described as ‘from good homes’—meaning with no criminal past and from decent families—murdered an eighty-two-year-old woman who lived in their neighborhood by smothering her. The woman returned to her home in the Edgeware neighborhood in north London and surprised them—she caught them red-handed while they were trying to steal from her. Does that sound familiar to you?”
A shiver rolls through me, from my head to my toes. “No.”
“Are you familiar with the Edgeware neighborhood?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Everyone’s familiar with it.”
“Why are you personally familiar with it?”
“Why?” I repeat his question.
“Yes, why!!” Marina screams suddenly. It’s a bloodcurdling scream. I’m certain that the other two men in my cell were shocked by it as well.
“I…lived…there,” I say weakly.
Marina takes the lead. “The three boys were surprised to see her. They panicked, jumped on her with a pillow, pressed it over her mouth so she wouldn’t shout out, and ran off. Unfortunately for them, the woman died.”
She examines my expression. My body temperature climbs sky-high. I feel Nachmias’s eyes constantly fixed on my back, drilling holes in it.
She continues. “The autopsy indicates she died as a result of a heart attack that occurred after she was smothered, rather than as a result of the suffocation itself. This saved the boys from an automatic life sentence. Does this story sound familiar to you?”
She’s frequently breathing heavily and sniffing, talking in an emotional tone as if the events happened to her personally, rather than many years ago. I’m afraid that at any moment, she might erupt. Her anger is that great.
I stay silent. It feels as if my lower lip is trembling. I wonder if they notice.
She continues. “We’re reaching the point of all this: Two of the young boys were Christian Brits. The third was Jewish. Now does the story sound more familiar to you?”
I don’t reply.
“I didn’t hear you. What’s your answer? Does the story sound familiar or doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yeeeesss!”
“The woman’s name was Miriam Stein. Do you know her?”
I mumble.
Sweat.
In despair.
In a moment, I’ll have a heart attack.
I want to die.
Yes, to die.
“What did you say?” she asks again.
“Yes.”
“‘Yes’ what?”
“I’ve…heard…that…name.”
“Be specific.”
“She lived in…in…our neighborhood.”
“Be more specific.”
“She was…I think…if I’m not mistaken…one of the kids’ grandmothers…”
“Good job! You get two points! One of the kids’ grandmothers! Let’s go back to the trial. The three boys received a severe sentence. Twelve years in a locked juvenile offender institution. They could have had it much worse. It was only due to their young age that they weren’t sentenced to eighteen years at least, if not twenty-five. Have I described the case accurately so far?”
“Yes.”
“But life is life, and trouble tends to come in bundles. In the course of the burglary that turned into a murder, one more ‘tiny’ thing happened: In an attempt to cover their tracks, the boys decided to burn down the apartment. They just didn’t take into account that the old lady had a neighbor who was an art aficionado. During the fire, works of art worth six million pounds were completely destroyed, with no possibility of reconstruction or repair. The insurance company reimbursed the neighbor for the entire sum of the damage, while simultaneously suing the parents of the three boys. The court ruled in favor of the insurer. Each one of the boys, meaning their parents, was required to pay a nice, round sum of two million pounds to the insurance company, plus a few more tens of thousands, which was already ‘small change’ compared to funding the cost of the trial. Am I still describing the story accurately?”
Was she accurately describing—
She edges closer to me, her nose nearly touching mine. “Due to the tender age of the perpetrators, the court fully suppressed their names as well as any detail that might disclose their identity.”
If it were up to me, I would end my life at this very moment, and be released of my torment once and for all.
But people don’t die so quickly.
Not even when they’re living a rat’s life in a foul-smelling prison.
And definitely not by invitation.
◊◊◊
Nachmias rises from his seat. He’s slow, clumsy, his eyes almost glazed. So different from the public figure I remembered from his frequent appearances on TV. He speaks softly. “After only two m
onths, one of the three was released due to health reasons, even though a court-appointed doctor had previously determined that he and his two young murderer friends were completely healthy.”
My eyes remain downcast—
Nachmias goes on. “He wasn’t released entirely, but rather transferred to a prestigious educational institution in the north of England, as luxurious as a five-star hotel, where he could come and go freely. And not only was he released, but his parents were the first to pay his debt to the insurance company, long before the parents of the two other boys, who were a lot wealthier. The father works in a car repair shop, the mother is a psychologist working for social services. All in all, his parents paid two million, one thousand three hundred and twenty-three pounds to the insurance company—more than two and a half million dollars, and thus paid off their debt.”
No—
No, no, no, no—
This is the worst moment of my life. And my life till now has been full of quite a few bad moments.
“Who’s George Adelston?” Nachmias asks.
“He’s—uh… One of the three boys.”
“Correct. Sentence: twelve years in a locked institution with no possibility of early release for good behavior or any other reason. Who’s Paul Best?”
“Another one of them.”
“Right. He also got slammed with twelve years of incarceration in a locked youth facility.”
No, no, no, nooooooo!
My wish does not come true. Marina volunteers to ask the third question. Amazingly, it’s pronounced in a quiet, pleasant voice, completely different from the overwrought style she adopted a moment ago.
She’s not the one who’s speaking. It’s my private devil, speaking from her throat. “The third boy is Abraham Nathan Stein. He was also sixteen, and the Jew in the gang. What was his relationship to the murder victim, Miriam Stein?”
My heart is beating within me with the intensity of a thousand horsepower. I’m convinced that it’s causing my shirt, made of rough cloth, to inflate like a balloon.
“His…grandmother…”
“You get two points. The good Jewish boy from a good home was an accessory to murder, along with his two friends, of no less than his own grandmother.”