The creaking sound of chairs being pulled back filled the lecture hall. The implications of Eva’s words—that Holocaust victims who demand forgiveness suffered from a low self esteem— caused a group of elderly people to leave the lecture hall in protest. Eva ignored it.
The lecture hall emptied a bit, and Arik noticed the presence of a dark-haired, muscular man with extraordinary features, dressed in a leather jacket. He leaned on the wall not too far from where Arik was sitting and looked tense, as if expecting something to happen. Arik noticed his fingers. Each had a different tattoo, and he vaguely recalled they had something to do with Russian mob hierarchy. The man snuck a glance at Arik, but his slanted eyes immediately returned to focus on Eva, who continued. “In my opinion, one can forgive while still feeling a sense of moral hatred. Forgiveness doesn’t necessarily mean reconciliation. It doesn’t justify the act or ask one to forget it; it only assists in overcoming difficult thoughts and emotions, in overcoming the desire for vengeance.”
Another dissenting murmur rose through the audience. The conference’s moderator struck the table with his wooden hammer, trying to call the audience to order.
Arik was no longer listening. He concentrated on the dark-haired man who didn’t appear to belong in the conference or the lecture but didn’t seem embarrassed in the least.
“Many people want to forgive, but are unwilling to forget. Which means they would like to let go of their difficult emotions, but their ego is unwilling to let go of the sense of strength that resentment offers them. So now I’ll say something that may anger a few members of the audience even more, but I’m still going to say it as a true friend of the Jewish nation: for the past sixty years, you Israelis have built your national ethos as one that depends upon the Holocaust. You’ve developed a nationalistic, messianic, victimized perception which, in my opinion, only serves to hurt second- and third-generation Israelis.”
Arik barely heard Eva’s last few sentences. He closely examined the dark-haired man and hardly heard the protests of the audience members.
“Using the memory of the Holocaust to justify the occupation or other acts of war is unacceptable to me and to growing parts of the western world. The inability to forgive has become a burden for the victims themselves, a factor that hinders the way you Israelis conduct yourselves and see the world. Today, the state of Israel is strong enough as an independent entity and is accepted by the entire international community. Remembering the Holocaust is a historic duty, both for us Germans and you, the sons and daughters of the victims. Nevertheless, this memory cannot be a factor in the making of political or military decisions, especially when considering the complicated reality with which your politicians need to cope.”
The audience was now furious. Difficult words were said. A number of people waves clenched fists at the stage.
The man with the tattooed fingers continued to watch, and a thin smile rose to his lips. Arik was willing to bet he hadn’t understood a single word of what was said.
“Thank you,” said Eva and nodded—a slight gesture which enchanted Arik. “I’m done.”
Eva’s words finally sank in, and Arik, still looking at the tattooed-fingered man, felt the rage bubbling within him. He wasn’t angry at Eva because of her words but because of the memory of the Holocaust embedded in his soul, the price he had paid when losing his own childhood in order to parent his sister, Naomi, because of the mental and physical injuries inflicted upon his parents and the price he needed to pay because of his mother’s anxiety to lose another child, an anxiety because of which he had never learned to ride a bicycle, skate or swim. He was angry for never having grandparents to spoil him, for the demeaning treatment he had had to suffer at the hands of native-born Israelis who claimed the victims were led like lambs to the slaughter.
“Does anyone want to respond? Any questions?” asked the mediator.
Arik immediately rose and went to the microphone at the front of the lecture hall. Eva was surprised to see him, but attempted to hide her emotions. Arik spoke in Hebrew and Eva hurried to put on the simultaneous translation headphones.
“Professor Von-Kesselring,” he began, sensing the eyes of the dark-haired man scorching his back. “In your lecture, you addressed the logical, philosophical and psychological aspects of forgiveness. I’d like to speak of the emotional aspect as viewed from my own, personal perspective. If I understood you correctly, no wrong should be unpardoned because, by lacking the ability to forgive, we simply harm ourselves, and there is nothing worth harming ourselves for. Am I right?”
Eva approved with a nod.
Arik continued excitedly, forgetting all about the mystery man for a moment. “In 1989, the year that marked the two hundredth anniversary of the French Revolution, the Chinese General Secretary was asked to sum up the influence of that revolution. His surprising answer was that it was too early to make an assessment. You, madam, are speaking of forgiveness, compassion, and forgetfulness a mere sixty years after the Holocaust, the worst industrialized massacre in history, a massacre whose initiators had regarded their victims as mere objects, lacking any soul or identity. As a second-generation Holocaust survivor and an Israeli, I cannot forget and am not allowed to forgive. On whose behalf would you like me to forgive and absolve? On behalf of my grandfather, who was murdered in Treblinka while only fifty years old along with most of my large family—a family I have never known? On behalf of my grandmother, who survived Dr. Mengele’s despicable experiments in Auschwitz only to die of typhus and weakness just days after the camp was liberated by the Red Army? On behalf of my older brother, who I never knew because he was shot to death by SS officers who wanted to know how many bullets they could put in the body of a Jewish baby tossed into the air like a clay pigeon before it landed on the floor? On behalf of my father, Leibish Rechtman, may he rest in peace, who managed to escape a prison camp for Polish soldiers captured by the Nazis and took two bullets to his tailbone and pelvis—bullets that remained embedded in his body to the day he died? On behalf of my mother, Ethel Rechtman from the house of Beiman, who was left scarred and mentally hurt after losing her son and husband who had been killed as a Polish soldier when she was only nineteen? My sister and I, second children to bereaved and hurting parents, served as a kind of correction for them, an attempt to heal a deep wound in their hearts. But their hearts constantly bled with painful memories. As children, we unwillingly took upon ourselves the role of replacing the dead of our own people.” A shiver passed through Arik’s hands and his hand clenched the microphone until the knuckles turned white. “This is why, madam, when I am asked about forgiveness, I reply with questions of my own: On whose behalf? Am I even allowed to forgive? Do I have a mandate to do that? Did they ever permit me to serve as their representative in your forgiveness project?” Tears filled his throat and made him choke.
Eva’s eyes shone. She identified with his plight.
“Sir, with all due respect,” said the moderator, “unless you have an actual question to ask the lecturer, I must ask you to finish.”
“I don’t have any questions. I’m finished,” Arik said and was rewarded by applause from the audience.
He was embarrassed by the applause and quickly retreated back to his seat at the end of the lecture hall.
A few others of the people present stepped to the microphone to ask their questions. Arik stopped listening. Later on, they all went out for a coffee break in the main lobby. Journalists flocked around Eva. Cameras clicked and flashlights illuminated her beautiful face again and again.
The sound of a bell announced the beginning of the next session. The audience returned to the lecture hall, and Arik motioned the smiling Eva to follow him to the nearby corridor. All the office doors in the corridor were closed, and Arik wrapped his arms around Eva’s body. They both clung to each other without words, connected by a silent embrace. Arik wondered what she felt about the difficult words he had hurled at her, but avoided asking so as not to spoil the sweetness of the
moment. She spoke first, and her words surprised Arik, who was still very emotional. “Why didn’t you call me? I haven’t heard from you since Sunday. I received a lot of tempting offers for dates and dinners, but I waited just for you.” She stroked his face, looking around her with concern. “Can I invite you to dinner at my hotel? The conference ends at nine. They’ll be raising a celebratory toast to mark the end of the conference, but I’ll try to escape.”
The sense of unease he created by her lecture and the presence of the slanted-eyed man suddenly merged with the sense of suffocation that overtook him whenever a woman tried to establish their relationship.
She brought her mouth to his ear and the scent of her breath filled him with pleasure. “I decided to stay here in Israel,” she whispered. “A few months ago I asked for a sabbatical at the Hebrew University, and today they let me know it has all been arranged.”
Arik disentangled himself from her with a sharp movement.
“Aren’t you happy?”
“I’m sorry, Eva, I’m overworked right now. I told you I’d find you, and here I am. I’ll find you again.” He turned and disappeared escaped to the far end of the corridor.
A chilly Jerusalem night welcomed him outside. When Arik got close to his car, he noticed the street lamp before it, as well as the one behind it, were both broken. He stopped and tried to recall if that had been their condition when he had arrived but wasn’t successful. The days were long that time of year, and when had parked his car, the streetlights had not yet been turned on. He was suddenly filled with a sense of apprehension. He thought about leaving the car and taking a taxi but feared what the new director of Mossad, Cornfield, would say when he found out the head of the Caesarea Division was afraid to approach his own car just because it was parked between two broken streetlamps.
Arik walked up the sidewalk on the other end of the street, parallel to his car, and bent to check the lower part of the vehicle. The guard standing on the other side, at the entrance of the President’s House, looked at him with careful interest. Arik took out his ID and called him. “I work for the prime minister’s office. Did you see anyone walking about this car?”
The guard came to him and examined the vehicle with its government license plate ending with the digits 77. “No, I haven’t, and there’s not much traffic in the street this time of night.”
“When did you start your shift?”
“Six PM.”
“And the streetlights weren’t working at the beginning of the evening?”
“They haven’t been working since the beginning of the week.”
Arik followed him when he returned to the guard station and hissed a curse. That baseless fear, along with the words he had said in the conference, took him back to his childhood and the rule he had set for himself never to be frightened or think of retreat. He took one step down the road, followed by another, and crossed toward his vehicle.
And then it happened.
A heavy dirt bike with a dark figure riding it emerged from nowhere with a deafening sound, racing toward him and blinding him with its headlight. Arik tried to retreat to the sidewalk, but the biker aimed for the exact spot he would occupy a few seconds from then. Arik tried to change directions and cross the street running, but the biker adjusted his course as well. Arik noticed a pile of trimmed foliage that blocked the sidewalk and thought about picking up one of the branches to jump back and hit the biker once he would reach him. Then it occurred to him the biker might be armed. He sent a hand to his pistol holster, rolled on the asphalt, and crouched in a firing position, thinking that the entire defense staff of the President’s House would show up within seconds of hearing the sound of gunfire.
His prediction proved wrong. Two powerful beams of light flashed from the end of the street. They blinded both Arik and the biker. A large vehicle that emerged from the Van Leer Institute raced straight toward the biker while sounding ear-piercing honks. The biker tried to avoid it, but the vehicle hunted him in the same way he had tried to hunt Arik just moments before. A loud thud was heard, followed by a scream and the screech of brakes. The vehicle continued its wild ride and disappeared beyond the curve of the road. Arik didn’t get a clear view, but he thought he saw the symbol of a leasing company and the shadow of a woman behind the wheel.
Arik ran, pistol in his hand, toward the biker who lay on the road, illuminated by the headlights of the upturned motorcycle. His motorcycle jacket sleeve had been torn, exposing a brown shoulder bearing a tattoo of a sword embedded in a skull with a crowned snake wrapped around it. Arik knew that any member of the former Soviet Union bearing such a tattoo could only be a gang leader, or “vor v zakone” in Russian.
When the biker saw Arik approaching him with a pistol in his hand, he rose to his feet with the nimbleness of a cat, picked up the bike from the road and raced on it against traffic. Arik tried to chase him, considering whether or not he should open fire in the middle of a residential neighborhood, but the assassin already disappeared down the street, scorching the air with fumes from his bike’s exhaust.
Chapter 12
Mossad Headquarters—Glilot Intersection
During his brief stay in Sicily, Cornfield’s had men transformed Fischer’s luxurious bureau into a spartan military office. The gleaming alabaster floor was covered with pale white ceramic tiles, the carved Carrara marble was replaced by a large wooden desk, the priceless Persian rugs were stored somewhere, and the cherry wood paneling was removed from the walls, now painted white. A large photograph hung on one of them: the proud image of three Israeli F-15 fighter jets flying above a snowy Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland. Another photo hung behind the chair of the new Mossad director, one that has always moved him: the image of a Jewish boy in the Warsaw Ghetto raising his hands above his head, surrendering to a German soldier threatening him with a gun. A small bronze plaque beneath the photo declared, “Never Again.”
Other walls in the office were covered with photographs documenting Cornfield’s military roles as well as his meetings with various public figures. The poetry and philosophy books on the shelves had been replaced by golden swords whose hilts and scabbards were encrusted with jewels, souvenirs given to Cornfield by kings and heads of state, trophies, and plaques commemorating his distinguished military career. There was no trace of Amira or any other member of his family.
Cornfield was pleased both by the results of the renovation and the quick pace with which his men had acted. “From now on, this is going to be the pace in this office,” he said during the first morning meeting with the division heads. “And unless you stop gossiping and badmouthing me, you’ll find yourselves cleaning the sculpture garden outside.” They all just sat and listened with expressionless faces.
Two days after taking office, Cornfield summoned all Mossad employees from the rank of department head and up, to an urgent introductory meeting. On the way to the main lecture hall, his veteran personal aid, Shlomo Zimmer, pleaded with him. “Please go easy on them, boss. You can be quite blunt when you’re using your military language. Remember, you’re talking to civilians. You need to earn their trust and respect.”
Cornfield said nothing and just winked at him with his good eye and motioned for him to open the meeting.
Zimmer went up on stage, introduced himself, and immediately invited Retired Major General Ben-Ami Cornfield to speak. Cornfield went to the podium and looked about the lecture hall. Some of the men he recognized from his army service or from meetings at the Ministry of Defense office.
“Good morning, my fellow Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations employees of Mossad, which some of you call ‘the office’ for some reason. It is a great privilege to stand here before you and accept one of the most sensitive positions in the country, the position of Mossad Director. I’d like to speak about my vision for the organization and how I envision it ten years from now. To be honest, I find today’s Mossad to be too fat, too heavy, and crawling with people who saw the enemy only b
ehind the safety of a television screen.”
None of the people present protested, but a cloud of discomfort visibly began to hover in the air of the spacious lecture hall.
Cornfield continued and detailed the prime minister’s expectations from Mossad in the face of the numerous threats Israel was faced with. “We need a Mossad comprised of soldiers, not pen pushers. The most important war is the one that’s prevented. We will use all the courage, professionalism and aggressiveness, which many of you have unfortunately lost.”
The hushed voices of protest gradually turned louder, interrupting the flow of his speech, and Cornfield became furious.
“You are all state employees,” he shouted at them. “If the elected prime minister wants to bring a certain policy to fruition, you have no right to counter him. You are a part of the executive branch, and you need to follow orders!”
“We are a professional organization whose role is to both to consult and make decisions,” a voice called from the end of the lecture hall.
Cornfield strained his single eye to identify the speaker. He felt he was losing control. His famous “alligator smile” rose to his lips, exposing his glass eye. He raised his voice. “Gentlemen, anyone who doesn’t want to be here is more than welcome to leave. Your non-operational staff has grown by almost fifty percent in the past few years! You’ve become a second-rate foreign ministry and a third-rate intelligence agency,” he shouted at the men sitting in the lecture hall. Their protestations merely served to strengthen his conviction. “Yes, yes, you can all write nice reports, using elaborate words, some of which I don’t even understand, but that’s not what Mossad is about!”
To Kill a Shadow Page 7