Promised Land Page 4

  Her mood lightened as she saw Arie passing in the window, smiling to himself, and entering the restaurant. She felt a rush of warmth; he was so positive, so enthusiastic, how lucky she was to have met him. He removed his coat, hung it over the back of his chair, bowed like a gentleman, and, with a serious face, handed her two small packages. She accepted with an inquisitive glance and, her smile growing, unwrapped the layers of soft tissue paper, to reveal a woolen hat and leather gloves.

  Tears came to Tamara’s eyes, her lips quivered, and she gripped his hand.

  * * *

  And later, in Arie’s room, when Tamara described her family’s life and escape from Egypt, one family among twenty thousand Jews, a second Exodus, there were more tears. When she was fourteen, louts from the Muslim Brotherhood, rampaging through Cairo’s Haret el Yahoud, the Jewish quarter, punched her in the face. “It didn’t hurt, I was too surprised. But they went crazy, they set the synagogue on fire, they even destroyed a hospital and they beat all the Jews they could find.” During Israel’s war with the Arabs in 1948, her father was fired from the university, men spat at her mother and called them dirty Jews. She lost her Arab friends.

  Growing up, Tamara was like a sister to Nanu, their cleaner’s daughter, a Muslim, and Tamara smiled as she recalled how they would walk hand in hand, exploring the streets near home. Nanu called her Tameri, because it was close to Tamara, and meant “My Beloved Land,” meaning Egypt. But Tamara’s voice caught as she remembered how disturbed she was when even Nanu had called her Sahyuni, Zionist, which in King Farouk’s Egypt was a curse. That was when Tamara knew it wasn’t her beloved land anymore. She felt like a rock had been thrown into the still waters of her existence.

  When they left Egypt she had hardly felt the stifling heat of the buses as they rattled north across the sandy roads, ferried across the Suez Canal, and slowly made their way through the Sinai Peninsula into Israel. Little Ido and Estie, her brother and sister, slept most of the way, but she couldn’t, she was too excited, imagining her new home among her own people: open arms, smiling faces, new friends.

  But from their big warm house they had moved into a leaky, cold tent.

  Worse, these Jews from Europe who ran the camps for the Jewish Agency didn’t speak a word of Arabic and acted superior in every way. Her father, a professor of Arabic literature and philosophy, couldn’t talk with them, and now laid irrigation pipes. It was like being a Jew in Cairo, only a different form of insult. And as for the other Jews in the camp, mostly from Morocco and Iraq, they kept to themselves, leaving the few Jews from other countries, like her family, feeling like segregated minorities. In short, little had changed except they had swapped their middling status in life for one at the bottom.

  It all came close to breaking her father, who struck out at her in frustration, while all her mother did was line up at the soup kitchen, cook, wash clothes, and wail. Ido, he of the boundless appetite, grew thinner and thinner. And even her sister, Estie, six years old, who in Cairo had always been laughing and playing, seemed lost and alone in the strange tent city.

  After almost an hour of describing her life to Arie, Tamara wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t carry on like this,” she said. “My family wasn’t killed, like yours.” Arie held her in his arms, sighing, for he couldn’t very well try to take her clothes off now. He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll find you a new home very soon. Your father will work in a school or maybe even a university, your mother can work too, if she wants, and you can study if you like. Do you want to?”

  “First things first. My Hebrew must be much better. What we need now is food on the table. Then I’ll think about tomorrow.”

  “But what do you want to do today; right now?” Arie answered, hoping she’d stay the night anyway. He felt Tamara hesitate as she turned to him, a smile playing upon her lips. His heart leapt, was this it? He was glad he had opened Peter’s note to Tamara and torn it up. Stay away from my brother, indeed. All’s fair in love and war, dear brother.

  On the drive back to the camp, Tamara chuckled at how Arie had leapt to his feet when she said that if she was late home her father would kill them both.

  Instead, her parents had stared at her new clothes. Everyone had. After Arie dropped her off at the entrance to the transit camp, all heads had followed her as she’d walked along the muddy tracks in her new leather boots and long burgundy coat. She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. Part of her wished she had hidden her gifts. What must everybody be thinking? It made her look like a bought woman. And as her mother shyly touched her woolen hat with one finger and then tried on a leather glove, and smiled at her father as she playfully extended her hand, palm down, to be kissed, Tamara thought, how far have we fallen? After we had everything we could possibly want in Cairo, now look how excited we get at a hat and gloves. In Cairo her mother would have been angry and made her return the gifts. Here, they just wanted to be warm.

  That night Tamara struggled with sleep, troubled by the rain’s patter on the tent, aware of each sigh as her parents gathered their blankets tighter. Ido coughed, again and again, as if he’d choke; she hoped he wouldn’t get pneumonia. Estie, of course, slept like a rock. The moonlight, diffused through the canvas, glinted on her mother’s thinning gray hair that bunched from beneath the new woolen hat. What had Arie meant, she wondered, when she had asked again if he had heard from Peter and when he would return. At first Arie had ignored her questions. When she insisted, adding mischievously how handsome Peter was, Arie had answered abruptly: “He’ll call whenever he wants to. But I don’t know when he’ll be back; you never know with him. It could be days or weeks or months.”

  And then he puzzled her with the words: “I’m building the country, Peter is defending it.”

  ALIAS VERONIQUE

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  April 1950

  As soon as he had arrived in Europe, Peter Nesher called Veronique, a woman with an instinct for the weak spot of a man. On their last mission together she had understood, at the last moment, that the young German parliament member she had been sent to seduce was a closet homosexual. With no time to find a male replacement, she disguised herself as a handsome boy, and still lured him to the trap.

  Her improvisational genius made her perfect for Shiloah’s first target: Dr. Lothar Genscher, a man with a secret. And a bad back.

  Veronique secured a position as a masseuse in the parlor that the burly thirty-six-year-old engineer frequented in the Brussels suburb of Ixelles, and the appealing brunette immediately became his favorite.

  The music was soft, the oil warm, the fragrance delicate, as Veronique gently kneaded Genscher’s back, stimulating the tissue around each vertebrae. Her hands glided down his sides, until they fluttered over his gluteus maximus muscles, and she giggled again: “I’m hopeless, I’ll never understand.”

  His voice faded as Genscher struggled to explain the cutting-edge field of electronics, until the firm circular motions of her hands banished any remaining thoughts of electrons and semiconductors, reducing him first to contented silence and soon to sighs and groans of pleasure as he struggled to control a different energy flow.

  She rejected his invitations to dinner, but after several more massages, of growing intimacy, he managed to overcome her reticence, and she consented to meet him at the bar and grill of her choice, in Le Berger hotel, on the Porte Namur side of the opulent, seventeenth-century market square. It was an outwardly respectable establishment, but the hotel’s art deco suites doubled as discreet hideaways for illicit couples, whose comings and goings could be concealed by an elevator that exited directly onto the street.

  Two nights later, in the smoky grill, Veronique, devouring her steak au poivre, was full of humor and vague promise, elegant yet earthy. Dr. Lothar Genscher, who over wine, cognac, and calvados became Lothar, which became Lotto, was quite swept away. In their wood-paneled alcove the masseuse, with her revealing lace décolleté and s
olicitous serving of the French cabernet, was the picture of desirable youth, struggling yet again to understand the work of the company he had founded, Elektro SPRL. Her peals of laughter at the intricacies she was failing to grasp melted his heart. After all, even his wife didn’t understand a word of it.

  Leering at her across the candles, which sparkled in her eyes and brought a flickering glow to her cheeks, he thought, she’s beautiful. Beautiful but limited, with a pedestrian background, as he had learned over dinner: Born in Brussels, she had spent the war safely at home with her mother while her father fought the Germans in France and Germany, only to be killed in the last month of hostilities. She hadn’t finished high school, but earned a hairdresser’s diploma. Then, because of the “opportunities,” she learned to be a masseuse and now hoped to graduate from this dreary suburb to a “better-class salon” closer to the Grand-Place, the market square, where the real money was. She looked at him with a coquettish air, expectant, it seemed to him.

  Exquisite but transparent, he thought, like so many of her age, their youth lost in the war. She should stop playing hard to get. Basically, she’s just looking for a rich husband.

  Fortified by the thought and the alcohol, Genscher said, “It’s getting late.” He drained his third calvados, and settled his glass back on the table. “And I hope you don’t mind, my dear Veronique, but I took the liberty of booking a room here. It’s small but interesting with exceptional art deco touches. I wonder, would you care to join me there? For another drink?” He took from his jacket pocket a key attached to a wooden disk, showing the number six. “It will be quieter there.”

  Veronique surveyed the silent room, her lips curling into the hint of a smile. “Art deco touches?” she said at last, drawing out the last word.

  “Yes,” he said, with a lascivious grin. “Lots of them.”

  “Well, I could certainly do with another drink,” she said with a sudden laugh, gesturing toward the empty wine bottle and the half-empty bottle of apple brandy. She leaned forward, and his eyes dropped to her cleavage as she whispered, “I don’t want to go up together. You go first and I’ll follow in five minutes. Don’t close the door.”

  Genscher leaned across the table to kiss her on those luscious full lips, but she pulled back with a wink. “Slowly, Lotto, slowly,” she said. “All good things come to he who waits. In five minutes, then, upstairs. Room number six.”

  As he undressed, Dr. Lothar Genscher surveyed himself in the full-length mirror that faced the bed. He turned to his profile and patted his belly, sucking it in. His light-brown hair was thinning and receding, his brow was creased, but still his chest was powerful and his arms were strong. He watched himself shrug off his shirt and trousers, and smiled with satisfaction. Lothar, well done. He had fantasized over the bimbo downstairs for weeks, and now he would have her, every juicy part of her, those breasts, those legs, those hands.

  Genscher closed his eyes with a deep sigh and removed his underpants, regretting how little time he had. He had told his wife he was at a business meeting and he should really return home before she became suspicious. Not that he cared. He turned to examine the bedside lamp and its base of sculpted stone. It supported a naked marble nymph whose outstretched arm held the stained-glass lampshade. He turned off the main light, leaving the room dimly lit in hues of blue, green, and red. He lay naked on his stomach, covered himself with a sheet, and waited for the masseuse. His masseuse. Beautiful young Veronique, with those magnificent young breasts. He didn’t have time for more drinks.

  Two minutes later the door opened slowly and he felt the slightest breeze of cooler air whisk his neck. The door closed gently and he heard the click of the key. A smile of anticipation spread across Genscher’s face, resting on the soft pillow, as light footsteps approached the bed.

  Another click and the room was in darkness. He shifted, and waited. A shiver of suspense ran down his back. She knows how to do this!

  He felt a prick on the base of his neck. A sharp fingernail? She’ll caress him, all the way down. But the prick felt sharper, and then pressed down. He realized it may cut him, and his breath caught. He began to struggle, to twist around, but a weight pressed him into the bed.

  He gasped in fear at the man’s voice.

  “If you move I will cut your spinal cord.” This was said in a voice so calm it could have been ordering a steak. “You will be paralyzed for life.”

  Genscher froze. He heaved, trying to suck in air. With an effort, Genscher raised his head and turned it so he could breathe. His guts were on fire.

  “I’m going to turn on the light,” the man continued in German. “Don’t shout; nobody will come. Don’t try anything, I won’t kill you, but I will maim you and it isn’t worth it. I just want to talk to you. You can turn around.”

  He slid off Genscher’s back and drew up a chair while Genscher pulled the sheet to his neck to cover his nakedness, which made him feel even more helpless. “Who are you?” he said. “What do you want? Where is Veronique?”

  “You are married,” the man said, showing the eight-inch blade in his lap.

  “What? Is that what this is about? Are you crazy? You scared the life out of me. Put that knife away. And what do you care? Who are you, anyway?”

  “My name is Willimod Stinglwagner. Call me Willi,” said Peter Nesher.

  Genscher almost laughed. “What sort of name is that?”

  “Bavarian. You think this is funny?”

  “Actually, yes. Get out of the room. You think you scare me because you’ll tell my wife about Veronique? Go ahead. You think I care? Anyway, there’s nothing to tell. So I had dinner with my masseuse, so what? Now get out of here.” But as he spoke Genscher pressed back into the soft headboard of the bed.

  Peter leaned forward, placed the knifepoint high up Genscher’s inner thigh, on his femoral artery, and pressed until beads of sweat appeared on Genscher’s brow. “If I cut here you’ll die in minutes,” he said. With his other hand Peter pulled his jacket aside to reveal the butt of a pistol strapped to his side. “Noch immer so komisch?” Still find it funny?

  Genscher shook his head and managed to say, “What do you want?”

  “The thing is, Monsieur Genscher,” Peter said, “you’re not who you say you are, are you?”

  Genscher looked at him with loathing.

  “Does your wife know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Do you miss them?”

  “Who?”

  Peter pulled a large manila envelope from his pocket and drew out a photo. A woman stood against an ivy-covered wall watching two children playing at her feet. It was taken from a distance but was pin sharp.

  “Why, Elisa, Uwe, and Friedrich of course.”

  Genscher’s jaw dropped and he went white. He looked from the photo to Peter and back again, and grabbed the picture.

  “Keep it,” Peter said. “We have plenty more. Take it home. Maybe your wife here would like to know about your wife there. And about your two little boys. They do look sweet.” He could see Genscher’s mind racing as he looked at the photos.

  “Again I ask you, what do you want?” Genscher said. “You want to blackmail me? For what? Is this about my research? Because if it is, all you have to do is knock on my door. It’s for sale, we are a commercial company.”

  “Ah, that’s it. Precisely. But the opposite. We don’t want you to sell your research.”

  “So what do you want? Do you really think I can be blackmailed? Do you know how much I miss my family in Germany? I would give anything to go home, to live with them again.”

  “So why don’t you?” Peter said, tapping Genscher’s leg with his blade. “And by the way, please cover yourself.” Genscher had let the sheet slide down, revealing a white chest covered in matted black hair. “Well? Why don’t you?”

  Genscher remained silent, looking at the photograph of his family. Peter knew what he must be thinking. They’re five and seven now, it’s a recent photo, what else do they k
now about me? And, who are They?

  Peter switched to English, his Midwestern drawl. “You speak English?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Peter knew Genscher had studied at MIT before the war. He had been an outstanding electrical engineering student, but had answered the Nazi call, summoning him home to the Fatherland.

  “So,” Peter said. “Bigamy.”

  “A minor crime. I’ll divorce and go home. I’d be glad to.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Genscher waited. What did this man have to do with Veronique? Where was she? She must be working with him or she would have entered the room by now.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Peter said. “Shall we, Herr Braun? Hans-Dieter Braun. SS-Sturmbannführer Hans-Dieter Braun?”

  Genscher tensed. So he knows that too. So what? What can he do? There were thousands of Nazis like him, tens of thousands. Only a handful had been arrested, and even fewer served time. It’s ancient history now—fascism is over. Today a new Europe is being built, and old enemies are united against the new threat of communism. Germany needs experienced people who can get things done. He felt his chest subsiding with relief. It’s time at last. He could finally go home, face the music, live with his family, live his real life.

  Peter sized him up. His hair was thinner, the silly little mustache was gone, he seemed stockier, but there was no mistaking him from the other photos in the brown envelope. This was the same little bastard all right. Peter quashed a sneer and the instinct to punish. Israel needed this man.

  “That is indeed my name,” Genscher/Braun said finally, and waited.

  Peter had been through this before. Their arrogance knew no bounds. Sniveling bullies, all of them. But when they broke, they shattered. They cried, and begged.