Leah's Children

by Gloria Goldreich

  “Dad loved the Canada geese,” Michael said softly.

  “I remember.” Rebecca watched the birds, and thought that only a few days earlier she had stood beside the sand crater that shadowed their kibbutz bungalow and watched a flock of egrets wing their way to the Dead Sea. She was swept by the wondrous mystery of her life. It was exciting, after all, to belong to two different worlds. Tomorrow she would walk down Madison Avenue and show Charles Ferguson the canvases she had painted in the desert wilderness. Her father would have liked her new work, she knew, and she watched the wandering fowl that David Goldfeder had loved so well disappear into the darkness.

  “Your father is dead,” Leah said. She looked at her children. The steadiness of her gaze, the quiet of her voice, formed a command. “We must stop looking backward and see things through our own eyes now. We must make our own lives, our own new beginnings. That is what he would have wanted.”

  Aaron embraced his brother, kissed his mother and his sister, his lips brushing their cheeks. Rebecca’s skin was petal-soft, Leah’s as delicate as crepe.

  He shook hands with Yehuda.

  “In the morning,” his brother-in-law said.

  “In the morning,” Aaron agreed, and he braced himself for the lonely trip, the long, dream-haunted night.

  AARON

  Budapest, 1956

  AARON stirred uneasily in sleep, struggling against the dream, and then lay still, surrendering to it, enduring it. As always, in this nocturnal visitation, she lay motionless across the bed, her eyes wide and staring, the hint of a smile curling her lip. As always, he passed his hands across her naked body, surprised at the satin smoothness of her skin, at the delicacy of her bones beneath his probing fingers. He pressed his palm down hard on the jutting edge of her hip, moved to the twin columns of her sternum and then to her breasts; their soft fullness contrasted with the almost skeletal slimness of her body. His tongue licked at her nipples, as ripe and rosy as the first strawberries of spring. They tasted vaguely of milk, and he sucked wildly and felt her body move at last beneath his own. Her hands seized the great swell of his strength and moved across the taut, pulsing muscle, urging it to thrust, yet holding it back.

  She pressed the heel of her palm against its smoothness and moaned softly as it trembled, straining and powerful, yet submissive to her touch. And then he was arched above her, glowing with a subdued radiance, and she allowed him to glide into the welcoming canyon of her body. Now his hands pressed against her shoulders and his body moved in desperate rhythm, but quite suddenly, as always, her skin lost its warmth. His hands fondled cool, unyielding marble; her arms rested at her side, palms upturned. Her body was motionless, as cold within as it was without.

  Still, he would not surrender. He continued to ride her, pounding at her as sweat formed on his forehead, coursed down his body. Each thrust was a mighty blow, echoing resonantly, hammering at her resistance. Aaron whispered her name. “Katie.” He shouted it. “Katie!” Her silence birthed his fury. He lifted himself high and descended with vicious thrust. She would awaken. Up and down again. She would live. His love would keep her alive. He pounded yet harder, battering at her with abandon. His love would keep her alive. He heard the sounds of his passion, the urgent beating of his body.

  Exhausted, he lay still, yet a harsh tympany continued. It became a knocking, an insistent summons, punctuated now and again by the urgent ringing of a doorbell. His doorbell. The real world had invaded his dream.

  Bewildered, disoriented, Aaron opened his eyes and sat up. He was, of course, alone in his bed amid tangled and sweat-stained sheets. The doorbell rang yet again, and he glanced at his clock. Seven-thirty. Of course. Yehuda and his colleagues were at the door. Lost in the punishing, familiar dream, he had overslept.

  “I’m coming,” he called. He pulled on his slacks and a shirt, found his loafers amid the clutter of bedside books and papers, and hurried to open the door.

  Yehuda stood in the doorway flanked by two strangers, a tall, slender man who stood rigidly erect, the small dome of his balding head glowing pinkly in the dim light of the hallway, and a short, stocky man who trained a jovial smile on Aaron, although his eyes narrowed in a shrewd appraising glance.

  “We are early?” Yehuda asked and looked at his watch.

  “No. You’re on time. My fault. I overslept.”

  The two strangers glanced warily at each other, and Aaron felt that he had failed a small test, disappointed them in an important way.

  But Yehuda only smiled and preceded the others into the apartment. Clearly, he was the leader.

  “I’m not surprised. I thought you looked very tired last night. I tried to call you this morning, but your line was busy.”

  “Damn,” Aaron said bitterly. He had done it again, then. Always, he and Katie had taken the phone off the hook before they made love. Now, sleep-drugged, dream-bound, he made the same futile gesture as he pursued her illusory presence, her frozen, unresponding shade. “I must have knocked the receiver off. An accident.”

  “You are alone, then, Mr. Goldfeder?” the tall man asked.

  “Apparently,” Yehuda interjected, his tone at once protective and annoyed.

  Still, he raised no objection as the tall man walked past Aaron into the bedroom, where he stared at the empty rumpled bed and replaced the receiver on the cradle. The assumption of proprietorship, the implied distrust, irritated Aaron, but he said nothing. It occurred to him that he did not like Yehuda’s colleagues, and he wondered how Rebecca, who shared the familial sense of privacy, reacted to them. He shrugged and went into the kitchen, where he made four cups of instant coffee, congratulating himself on having milk and sugar and four clean teaspoons. He placed everything on a tray and carried it into the living room.

  “Thank you, Aaron,” Yehuda said. He nodded to the tall man. “I want you to meet Yoram Almogi.”

  Yoram Almogi held out his hand, and as Aaron shook it, he noticed that the Israeli’s fingers were cruelly hard against his own and briefly unrelenting as Aaron withdrew. A brief and petty assertion of authority. There were lawyers who used that same disarming tactic before a trial, at a meeting.

  “And this is Reuven Greenstein.”

  Reuven Greenstein nodded, ignored his coffee, and looked around the room. His eyes rested on Charles Ferguson’s pen-and-ink sketches, drifted to an oil of brilliant anemones in Rebecca’s defined primitive style, and finally concentrated on Leah’s painting of the maple tree that dominated her garden. It depicted the tree in the autumn season, its leaves bloodied by impending death and drifting onto the lawn, dried and wearied by the seasons.

  “Your mother is a wonderful artist,” Reuven Greenstein said, and his voice was soft, almost reverent. A collector, Aaron decided, and the man corroborated his thought. “I know something about paintings. I run a small gallery in Tel Aviv—that is, when things are normal.”

  “And things are not normal?” Aaron asked as he shrugged into his jacket.

  He sat down on the living room couch, indifferent to its careless bachelor disorder. Yehuda moved to the windows and carefully lowered each shade. He drew the drapes so that no light escaped and then went to the front door, where he fastened the chain and pulled the bolt on the double lock into place. The small, deliberate gestures transformed Aaron’s apartment into a clandestine headquarters, darkened and secured.

  “No, Aaron, things are decidedly not normal,” he said. “Even for Israel, the situation is now extraordinary. The border incidents are no longer ‘incidents.’ They are acts of terror. Nasser’s nationalization of the Suez Canal has made the fedayeen more daring. Rebecca does not want to alarm her American family, and so she has not written to tell you what has been happening only kilometers from the kibbutz—an attack on a tourist bus, a surveyor killed by snipers. We have grown accustomed to sleeping in shelters. But something must be done.”

  “But what can be done?” Aaron asked. “Short of marching on Suez itself?”

  The three men
looked at one another. At last Yehuda spoke, leaning forward, his voice low.

  “Aaron, whatever we tell you must be held secret. I do not mean to be dramatic, but that is the reality of the situation. You remember that when I met Rebecca I was a Bericha agent?”

  Aaron nodded. Yehuda had worked for Bericha, the organization that had rescued Jews from Europe and illegally transported them to Palestine in defiance of the British and their quota.

  “Almogi and Greenstein worked with me. After the war the Mosad enlisted our services. The Mosad corresponds to your CIA, I suppose—it’s an abbreviation for the Institution for Intelligence and Special Assignments. Perhaps it has never occurred to you, but intelligence is a natural resource for Israel.” He paused, drained his coffee cup, and shook his head impatiently when Aaron reached for it. “Other nations have their gold and silver mines, even uranium or perhaps fertile soil. Our Arab neighbors harvest their black gold. We cannot compete with them. The Negev is barren, and there are no mineral deposits in the Galilee. The potash in the Dead Sea will not make us wealthy. But we do have our people, our ingathering of the exiles from every country in the world. They speak many languages, and they have intricate knowledge of many things.”

  Yoram Almogi laughed harshly.

  “My garage mechanic in Tel Aviv can sketch the plans of the entire Moscow sewer system. There are kibbutzniks in the Sharon Valley who know about secret passes in the mountains of Afghanistan. I know an architect in Haifa who can reproduce blueprints for the airfield at Entebbe in Uganda. And what our people do not know, they can find out. We have the languages. We have the contacts.”

  “And of course you don’t hesitate to use these contacts,” Aaron said dryly. He was the cautious American, solicitous of privacy and privilege. He was the lawyer questioning men who had been forced too often to live beyond the law.

  “We can’t afford not to use them,” Yehuda replied bluntly. “Information is international currency. The Americans want to know what our people can tell them about Belgrade—the climate of opinion, the leadership. Is the government stable? What are the rumblings within? We in turn want to know what is happening in the court of Saudi Arabia. Two items that we pass on to an American diplomat at a cultural reception in Athens may be worth one important clue for us. A rumor can have the value of a ten-page report. It’s simple barter, Aaron. International trade with information as a variable commodity. Joshua Ellenberg would have no difficulty understanding it. Every connection is useful, vital.”

  “Of course, at different times, some connections are more important than others,” Reuven Greenstein said. “Just now, the Hungarian connections are very important, which is why I am here. I was born in Budapest. My father owned a restaurant there. But that was a long time ago. My father died in Belsen. A curious irony. The best pastry chef in Budapest died of starvation. His restaurant was confiscated by the government. Today it is a processing plant for official photos for documents. I used to rush home from school, and as I reached our corner I would begin to smell the roasting chickens, the onions simmering in goose fat. Now all you smell on that street are chemical fixatives and stinking glue.” Sadness fell across his face, covering his features like an ill-fitting mask. Tears glittered in his pale eyes. Was he mourning his father, Aaron wondered, or the vanished aroma of those days of peace and plenty? Both, he suspected, and turned away, shamed because the other man’s grief embarrassed him and evoked his own sense of loss.

  “Are you also Hungarian?” Aaron asked Yoram Almogi.

  “If the nationality fits, I wear it,” Almogi said. “For this week I am Hungarian. I speak the language well enough. I know the country well enough. But then I speak many languages and know many countries. This week I am Hungarian because it is about Hungary that we have come to speak to you.”

  “About Hungary?” Aaron asked in surprise. “But I don’t know a damn thing about Hungary. And what interest does Israel have in Hungary?”

  “There are Jews in Hungary,” Yehuda replied. “Wherever there are Jews, Israel has an interest.” There was no reproof in his voice, but he spoke slowly, as though he were a teacher instructing a student who had difficulty grasping a simple concept.

  “Yes. I understand,” Aaron said. “But I still don’t see how I can help you.”

  “You are an expert in immigration law,” Yoram Almogi observed. He opened his briefcase and removed a file, which he extended to Aaron. “These articles are all written by you.”

  Aaron glanced at them. Reprints from a review and an article he had written for the Harvard Law Journal, his précis for the Compendium of Immigration Law, an amicus brief he had written for the Department of Immigration and Nationalization, and a scholarly article analyzing Canada’s policy of immigration for Jews during World War II—not much to analyze, considering that during that entire period the great Dominion of Canada had admitted fewer than five thousand Jews.

  “Yes. They’re my publications,” Aaron acknowledged.

  “We were interested in them because we need an American expert in immigration law. Who could serve us better than Rebecca Arnon’s brother?” Reuven Greenstein said. “We are concerned about a Jewish scientist in Budapest. A Dr. Groszman. Groszman’s work concentrates on radar research, aeronautical avoidance techniques. Such research would be invaluable for us in Israel, for reasons that we cannot discuss with you.”

  “I think the reasons are obvious,” Aaron said dryly. “Your next war is going to be an aerial one, and you’re going to have to develop techniques of evading radar perception. I may be an immigration expert now, but I was a soldier once. I understand a few things about war.”

  “It is not that we do not trust you,” Reuven said carefully. “But it is safest that you know as little as possible. We have a saying in our military intelligence units: What is not known—”

  “Cannot be revealed,” Aaron finished the statement for him. “I heard that for the first time from Orde Wingate.”

  “As did I,” Yoram Almogi said. “I trained with him at Hanita.” He looked at Aaron with new respect. He stared at the emblem of the Jewish Brigade, the small gold menorah that Aaron wore in his lapel.

  “And I fought with him in Ethiopia. In the Jewish Brigade.”

  “Yes. We know that, of course. And we are duly impressed. But it is your legal expertise and not your military background that interests us now. This Dr. Groszman of ours wants to leave Hungary.”

  “Surely that’s not a problem. Under the Law of Return, any Jew is eligible for admission to Israel.”

  “The problem does not originate with Israel. Naturally, our doors are open to Dr. Groszman, but emigration from Hungary is not so easily accomplished. Hungary, like all the Communist bloc countries, has a special problem relating to Israel. When Israel was seeking its independence, the Communist world embraced it as an ally in the struggle against Western imperialism. They accorded it immediate recognition, even made noises about extending aid. But once we were established as an independent democratic state, suddenly we were foes of liberation, lackeys of imperialists. And so they mire Jewish emigration in bureaucracy and restrictions. An emigrating Jew must prove that he is totally free of debts and obligations. Some Jews have been told they must bring affidavits from every merchant in town. They must also prove that they are not leaving any dependents. A cousin of mine who has a senile great aunt whom he has not seen for twenty years has been denied the right to leave. And of course they do not want their scientific experts to leave.” Yehuda sighed heavily and turned his palms upward. The gesture was a remnant of his past, half desperation and half supplication. Aaron was reminded of David Goldfeder, who had often ended an argument staring down at his upturned hands.

  “Besides,” Reuven Greenstein added, “it is not in Israel’s best interest for it to be known that Dr. Groszman has involvement there. Groszman’s work in radar technology might tip our hand—confirm what some of our Arab friends may already anticipate.”

  “That you hav
e an immediate and urgent interest in radar evasion techniques.”

  “Exactly. However, if Dr. Groszman were to enter the United States, without any aid or interference from Israel, perhaps no suspicions would arise. There is a Groszman family here—a brother in Cleveland, I think.”

  “San Francisco,” Almogi interjected. His forte, Aaron guessed, was accuracy. He was the guardian of the small detail, the essential minutiae that might betray an operation, jeopardize a life.

  “All right. San Francisco.” Yehuda was impatient. “It would be assumed to be quite natural that the United States would be the country of choice. Not an unexpected decision.”

  “Not unexpected,” Aaron replied, “but probably not possible. This country’s immigration laws are based on a quota, and the Hungarian quota is small and always well filled. I’m familiar with it because I have a client who is trying to secure a visa for a relative, and I know that the waiting list goes straight into the next decade. I don’t think you want your Dr. Groszman to wait that long.”

  “Naturally not,” Yehuda said. “But we have heard that when there are extraordinary circumstances, extraordinary intervention is possible.”

  Aaron marveled at how simple Yehuda made it sound. Perhaps he imagined that Aaron could go into a courtroom and present a straightforward, uncomplicated plea. “Your Honor, my case is extraordinary and therefore I am sure that you will assign it special consideration. After all, we are all reasonable and decent men.” Clearly, Yehuda had never confronted a black-robed federal judge, his shoulders stooped beneath the weight of constitutional responsibility. It seemed to Aaron that all the judges before whom he argued were round-shouldered and hard-eyed. He turned to the three men.

  “There were extraordinary cases—millions of them during the course of World War Two, but very few of them were accorded this extraordinary intervention. There were a few, of course—Albert Einstein, Leo Szilard, various Rothschild connections—but even a personality like Thomas Mann’s daughter had to go through the charade of a paper marriage to W. H. Auden to obtain a visa. I don’t know that very much will be different in the case of Dr. Groszman.” Aaron’s voice was polite and regretful. Unfortunately, this was the law of his country.