Promised Land Read online

  Warmth rose from the kerosene heater, which had two kettles of water boiling on its grill. The man who had objected to Tamara’s presence grimaced but kept his silence, while the others stamped their feet and held their hands out to the heat.

  Arie squeezed Tamara’s hand before releasing it, and as he glanced at her, he couldn’t help a grin. All he could see under her scarf were her deep green eyes, and one of them slowly winked.

  * * *

  Two hours later, as a gleaming Tamara emerged from the narrow shower stall in Arie’s building and padded barefoot to his room, she could hardly believe her luck. A hot shower in a warm bathroom, with soap and dry towels. The stuff of dreams. If only she could bring her whole family here. With her wet hair piled in one towel, her body wrapped in another beneath her overcoat, she found herself walking behind a slim young man in a cap and jacket. He stopped at Arie’s door and took out a key. Surprised when he suddenly halted, Tamara bumped into him. He was surprisingly solid. “Oh, slicha!” she said, sorry. The man looked over his shoulder and quickly smiled, with teasing eyes. All he had felt was her softness. “That’s the best thing that’s happened to me all week,” he said.

  “Are you going into that room?” she asked, and added, “of course you are, you’re opening the door.”

  She stood before him, and began to blush. “Me too,” she said.

  “You too? You too, what?”

  “Me too going in.”

  At that moment the door opened and Arie said, “Tamara, so you met my brother, Peter, already, come in. Quick, out of the corridor, you’ll die of cold.”

  Tamara entered the room, followed by Peter, who raised his eyebrows at his brother. Arie grinned and shook his head. Brother talk for: No. Not yet. Unfortunately. Peter followed her with his eyes, a smile slowly forming. No words needed: Now that is one beautiful girl.

  Tamara made a spinning gesture with her hand and the brothers turned around while she dried herself with a small towel, leaning over the little electric heater. She grinned, surprised at herself: she had better not tell her parents about this, half-naked in a room with two strange men. Her father would kill her. But times are changing, Israel is not Egypt and thank God for that. And living with other families in the tent for so long meant she had given up on privacy.

  Looking at the door, his back to her, Peter asked in German, “Who is she, what’s she doing here?”

  “I found her at the immigrant camp at Sidna Ali,” Arie said, staring at the window, straining to see Tamara’s body in the reflection. He couldn’t make out much but he liked what he saw: a pale shape blurred by raindrops sliding down the glass.

  “And of course you invited her for a hot shower,” Peter said.

  “Well, it worked last time,” Arie said. “That Moroccan.”

  “You’re a snake. Do her parents know she’s here?”

  “Are you crazy? They’d skin me like a rabbit.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “She looks younger. Well, at least give her a good meal.”

  “And a good time?” Arie said with a laugh.

  Peter said, “I have to go, I just came to get my stuff.”

  “Where to this time?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “How long for?”

  “Who knows.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “You know I can’t say. Stop asking.”

  Tamara said, “Are you talking about me?”

  “Yes,” Arie said. “Peter thinks you are beautiful. So do I. Can we turn around?”

  “Not yet, and don’t peek or you’ll turn into a pillar of salt.” She congratulated herself on learning that new Hebrew phrase.

  Still looking at the door, they heard a knock, saw the knob turning, and the door opened.

  “Arie, you’re late,” Natanel Ben-Tsion said, entering the room. “And now I can see why,” he continued with a smirk.

  “Turn around!” Tamara shrieked.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, “I didn’t see anything. Well, not enough. Arie, come on, they’re waiting…”

  “Oh no, I totally forgot. Peter, you know Natanel; he works at the city council. I have to leave for a bit, we have a meeting. Tamara, wait for me, all right, I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” He slapped Peter on the back. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “So I can do what you would do? I’ll be gone when you get back. See you soon.”

  “Stay safe. How long will you be gone this time? Is it a dangerous one?”

  “No, of course not, it never is.” Peter chuckled and pulled his brother into his arms. They embraced, each stealing a glance at Tamara, who was checking the dampness of her clothes. Then Arie was gone.

  “This is the best I can do,” Tamara said at last. “My clothes are all wet. Do you mind if I stay like this?”

  Peter turned. “No,” he said, his voice catching. “It’s fine.”

  Tamara’s hair dangled in damp braids across her honey shoulders, bare but for the towel that covered her to her waist. As she moved, her skirt revealed the swell of her stomach. The moment hung. She knew that Peter was examining her, and she felt naked. And oddly excited. In Cairo her father could beat her for less. But here in Israel … she marveled at her daring. Each movement of her arm pulled at the towel, which she held firmly in case it fell away. Each tighter grip swelled the outline of her breasts and revealed more of her belly, where Peter now gazed. She saw him swallow. She trembled, yet felt safe with this handsome, embarrassed young man.

  She didn’t know what to say as they stood before each other, closer than an arm’s length. Peter, made bold by the sweetness of the moment, took her hair into his hand. “It’s wet,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like me to brush it?”

  Tamara swallowed, her breathing quickened. She hesitated.

  Peter walked to the bathroom and returned with a hairbrush. He pulled up a chair. “Here, please sit down.”

  Tamara looked from Peter to the chair. She knew she should leave, but her blouse was wet and her coat was still dripping. And, really, what harm could it do? As long as nobody knew.

  She sat stiffly in the chair with her back to Peter, who gathered her hair in one hand and slowly brushed with the other, tenderly, rhythmically. She relaxed, rocking gently to the movements of his hand, as in a slow dance. As he pulled through each strand and ended each stroke with a flourish and a sigh, he placed a hand on Tamara’s forehead, to steady her, and he felt her lean into his hand, as if giving him permission. Tamara, lonely for so long, felt herself in secure, strong hands, and allowed herself to drift into this intimacy. The gentle pulling at her hair, the resting of her head against his warm hand, such familiarity with a stranger was thrilling, yet somehow reassuring. She felt safe. They were silent, the only sound Peter’s quickening breath.

  He placed each gleaming bunch across Tamara’s naked shoulder. He gazed at his shiny handiwork, and at the soft swell of Tamara’s breasts, where she had relaxed the grip on her towel. Twice, in her dreamy state, the darkness of her nipples had been revealed.

  Peter smiled and pulled up the towel. Gently, Tamara removed Peter’s hand from her head. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I think I feel more relaxed than I ever have since I left Cairo.” She squeezed his hand and stood, searching for her blouse.

  “When was that?” Peter asked.

  “Nine months ago.” Her voice was wistful, soft and sweet.

  As he watched her he felt himself stir. How he wanted to rip away that towel, take her innocent face in his hands. But how could he? A beautiful refugee girl who trusted him. Could he even touch her? He knew Arie would. His heart raced.

  He was twenty-seven and didn’t have a girlfriend; he was leaving on another mission, who knew when he’d have another chance? And so beautiful … he leaned toward her.

  And as for Tamara, when Peter leaned into her, cupped her head in his hand, brought his lips
slowly to hers, his eyes closed, her own eyes closed too, and her lips met his. She felt as if she were in a dream, melting into him, turning her back on Egypt. She had never felt like such a woman. Her towel slipped away, and her naked breasts were against him. His shirt was rough.

  As her fingers dug into his flesh, she returned his kiss and the room swayed. They sank onto the bed. A voice in Tamara’s head whispered Stop, leave, now! But just then Peter unbuttoned his shirt and pulled her to his strong body. At first she shrank from his searching touch, until in wonder, she discovered him too. He pulled at his pants, and at her skirt. Her thoughts vanished, and she felt only gratitude and heat and elation. She gripped his buttocks and soon felt pain, but for a mere instant, she wanted this, needed this, more than anything ever before. She was escaping the tent, the camp, her horrid life, and finding freedom. Everything forbidden, all that was withheld from her, she embraced now with all her soul and all her might, until his tremors went through her. She heard his call as from far away, then they shuddered together and it was over.

  She was panting, gripping him so hard that he had to prize her fingers apart. Her heart raced against his until slowly their breathing eased and her mind began to clear again.

  And when it did, lying at Peter’s side, she thought only, over and over, Ya Allah, Tamara, oh Tamara! What have you done, why did you do this, you’re a crazy girl. For a moment, there she was with Pascal on the boat, wind in her hair, water whipping her toes. She saw Peter, and felt herself recoil. Who is this man? She felt damp between her legs and wished she could ask for another shower.

  She examined her hands: they were trembling. Was this a telltale sign? When she got home, would anybody know what she had done? Could they see? She had shamed herself and her family and, in Egypt, she could be punished and beaten, or worse. But wait, no, this was Israel, and after nine months living in a tent, who had the right to judge her? She didn’t belong to anyone. Still, nobody must ever know.

  They dressed quickly and in silence, afraid Arie would return, each astonished at what had occurred.

  Tamara could not meet Peter’s eyes, while he could not take his eyes off her. Each time he tried to say something a half-formed word emerged, like a grunt: he had no idea what he could say, for he knew she had broken all the taboos of her world. All he wanted was to hold her and look after her.

  He looked at the door, knowing he wouldn’t be back for months. He couldn’t call Tamara, he couldn’t tell her why, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt the thudding of his heart; he had never felt this way before, anxious and pained: the sense of a beginning, cut short before it began.

  Peter held his arms out to Tamara but she backed away, confused, until she saw the pleading in his eyes and came to him.

  He held her to his chest, stroked her hair, kissed her eyes, brought her fingers to his lips, made his promises, and left.

  PETER

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  February 1950

  The next day, in a small room at 85 Ben Yehuda Street in Tel Aviv, Peter checked his suitcase one last time, making sure his clothes had no Hebrew labels, that his toiletries were clean of all Hebrew lettering, that nothing he wore or carried could identify him as a citizen of Israel. All he kept was his watch, his father’s Swiss Longines, that he never took off: his security blanket. He checked that he had the right passport and that it matched his driving license, library card, identity card, and ration book, all in the name of Willimod Stinglwagner, Munich importer of medical products. It was such an unlikely German name that he felt it had to sound genuine. “Nennen Sie mir Willi,” he would say. “Call me Willi.”

  That was for Germany. Here at the Office he was better known by his code name: Wolf.

  Satisfied, Peter closed the case and lay on the bed, pulling on a cigarette, still tingling from Tamara. What a body, what a beauty, what a girl. He just knew Arie would be all over her, and there wasn’t a thing he could do. He must not go to see her, he didn’t even have an address to write to. Any slipup could be deadly.

  He waited to be briefed by his handler. He only knew that he’d be working on his own, or almost on his own. Nothing new there. He had been a secret agent for years, with America’s OSS in Europe, then for Shai, the Jewish Underground in Palestine, and now for Israel.

  At a tap on the door Peter sprung to his feet, ready to be taken to room seven for the briefing. Instead, in walked Reuven Shiloah himself, holding a large brown envelope. Peter stepped back, put out his hand, withdrew it. “Reuven,” he said. “Sir. I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting…”

  “Relax, Peter, sit down,” Shiloah said. “I came myself because this won’t be the usual.”

  “‘The usual.’ There’s such a thing?”

  Shiloah didn’t smile. He rarely did, and certainly not now. The prime minister’s special adviser was a legendary master of the dark arts. He had founded the pre-state secret service, formulated many of Israel’s defense doctrines, and was the most trusted of David Ben-Gurion’s secret warriors. He gave nothing away. It was said that when a taxi driver asked where he was going Shiloah told him to mind his own business.

  Shiloah sat to Peter’s left, and as he began to speak, Peter couldn’t take his eyes off the scar below his right cheekbone. He hadn’t seen Shiloah since the man had been hit in the face by shrapnel from an Arab car bomb in Jerusalem. The thin reddish welt that twitched as his jaw moved and his unwavering stare through round-rimmed spectacles made Shiloah appear almost fiendish.

  Peter shifted uncomfortably, leaning back as the big man edged closer; the spymaster’s presence was overwhelming. Fortunately Shiloah rose and began to pace, but his first words made Peter’s heart miss a beat. “This could be a long operation, Peter.…”

  Long? Tamara flashed before Peter, bare shoulders and swelling breasts, honey skin, sparkling eyes, and wet hair, their bodies a perfect fit.

  “And a difficult one…”

  Peter tried to focus.

  “I’m not going to say more than I need, but you know about our problem with Yanai center? With our own people there?”

  Peter nodded. Yanai was the code name for the Paris station. It was the talk of the bureau. Black market, cheating on expenses, agents living high on the hog, clumsy meetings in luxury hotel lobbies, in short, everything the austere socialists running the country despised, and to make it worse, serial incompetence and meager results.

  “Yes, I get the picture; we all do,” Peter said. Out of loyalty to a friend in the Paris team, he added, “Isn’t it true, though, that they need to make money on the side to finance their activities because their budget is much too low? That’s what people are saying.”

  If looks could kill, he was dead.

  Shiloah sneered. “The short answer is No. The long answer is that I will deal with them all, be sure of that.” His tone changed, short and blunt. “But that is not the point. This is a very sensitive and dangerous time for Israel, and we must focus on what is most important.” He sat down and fixed Peter with his notorious stare.

  “I want you to go to West Germany, and report back only to me. No contact with anyone else. Our European organization is compromised by those clowns in Paris and this is too sensitive a mission to take a risk. You must know that Ben-Gurion is convinced we’re on the brink of another war. Me, I’m not so sure. But we must be ready for anything. I have a special mission for you. Long-term.” He took a bundle of photographs from his envelope, set them out on the bed, and looked up at Peter. “I trust only you with this, nobody else.”

  For whenever Reuven Shiloah had an especially sensitive mission, off the books, when he needed someone with loyalty, discretion, as well as cunning and special fighting skills, he called on Peter Nesher.

  * * *

  The young man had first caught Shiloah’s eye toward the end of World War Two, when Peter Berg was a twenty-two-year-old officer in the American OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, and Shiloah was trying to win American support for the Z
ionist enterprise. He also had discreet feelers out for potential allies inside the American operation.

  Peter fit the perfect profile: a Jew who had escaped Germany at the age of fourteen, lucky to be sent to safety in America. He spoke perfect English with a flat Midwest accent, as well as German. At the age of twenty he had fought his way through Europe with the 45th Division of the US Seventh Army, winning the Silver Star for gallantry: he had led an assault on a machine-gun nest but ran out of ammunition; he jumped the last two gunners and stabbed their throats with his bayonet. He was among the first units to liberate the Nazi concentration camp in Dachau, where he had searched desperately among the survivors for his family, who came from nearby Munich. He searched in vain. Finally, because of his cunning, bravery, and fluent German, he had been tapped by the OSS to work on secret missions among the German population, and then farther afield.

  Shiloah thought he had the perfect background, experience, and skills to spy for the Jews of Palestine. But at that time, in 1945, Peter had turned him down. He said he already had a job, and owed America, and wouldn’t cheat on them. Nothing would budge him, no threats, no entreaties, no bribes.

  But in 1947, two years after war’s end, Peter, by now one of the founding agents at the CIA, had been shocked to learn that his younger brother had survived the concentration camps after all. He went to search for him in Palestine. And it was Shiloah who found, within hours of Peter’s appeal for help, that his brother, Aren Berg, was living in Tel Aviv under the Hebrew name of Arie ben Nesher. It made sense. The root of the German name “Aren” was the same as the Hebrew “Nesher”: Eagle. To celebrate, Peter took the same family name and became Peter Nesher.

  Peter told Shiloah he would be forever in his debt, and a conversation had ensued that Peter would never forget, even if he sometimes came to regret it.

  “Why forever? Pay me back right now.” Shiloah had said.

  Surprised, Peter had answered, “If I can, of course.”

  “Oh, you can. The question is, will you?” Shiloah launched into his recruiting speech, which rarely failed. “Do you want to serve your people? Because we need you now. Our battle in Palestine has barely begun, Jews are fighting for our very existence, as we have not fought in two thousand years. Could the Nazi massacres happen again? Of course they could, if the Arabs had half a chance. But this time we will not be led like lambs to the slaughter. We will fight back and defeat our enemies. We will build our Jewish state, and defend it for eternity. The question is, do you want to be part of the greatest Jewish enterprise since the Jews were forced into exile?” He followed up at the jugular.”Do you want to avenge your murdered parents? Your slaughtered sisters?”