The Jerusalem Inception (37 page)
“You’re a naïve sabra,” Elie said. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
“You haven’t seen your family butchered like sheep on market day, haven’t smelled the crematoria, still glowing red with our people’s ashes.”
“I’ve lost comrades in battle,” Rabin said. “I’ve fought for Israel since my Bar Mitzvah.”
“Playing defense. That’s why you boys call your army the
Israeli Defense Force.
It’s delusional to think that the Holocaust ended with the Third Reich. The Final Solution didn’t start with Hitler, it didn’t end when the Americans reached Auschwitz, and it will continue until we finish it off!”
“You’re paranoid.”
“The way I see it, our people have been the subject of a Final Solution campaign for thousands of years, since the day idol worshippers chased the patriarch Abraham from his home, through the Egyptian slavery, Amalekite attacks, Canaanite raids, the Babylonian exile, the Greek massacres, the Romans burning down the temple, crushing Masada—”
“I don’t need a history lesson.” Pointing with his cigarette at the border, Rabin said, “I’m worried about the here and now.”
Elie looked over his shoulder at the staff car awaiting Rabin, his driver and aide standing by, watching. “The here and now include the Final Solution. Think of the crusaders, who killed more Jews in Europe than the Muslims they had set out to vanquish. And the Inquisition, another phase in the Final Solution. The expulsions from Spain, Portugal, and England. The pogroms in Poland, Latvia, the Ukraine, and Russia. Stalin’s mass murder of Jews.” He paused to take a draw, blowing the smoke into the wind. “Hitler’s camps were just another phase in the effort to exterminate the Jews. And now? Are you listening to Nasser’s speeches? He’s the leader of the Arab world, and what did he declare in Cairo’s giant square last week?
Annihilate Israel! Throw the Jews into the sea!
Isn’t it the familiar language of the Final Solution?”
“What do you want?” Rabin’s voice rose in anger. “We’re ready to move! We’re ready to fight! We’re ready to win!”
“This time, maybe. But what about next time? And the next?” Elie’s cigarette burned his fingers. He dropped it. “When I escaped our village in ’forty-one, powerless to stop the butchery of my parents and siblings, I vowed to dedicate my life to
our
final solution. I call it:
Counter Final Solution.
”
The chief of staff looked at him, waiting for an explanation.
“Exterminate our enemies before they exterminate us.”
“You want to kill all the Gentiles in the world?”
“Only those who want to kill us. A dose of preventative medicine.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Kill Nasser, for example, and you’ve eliminated a charismatic leader capable of marshalling a Pan-Arabic military attack on Israel.”
“There would be another Nasser.”
“We kill him too.” Elie pointed at his own chest. “When I’m in charge of Mossad, the game will change. I’ll set up a worldwide network of fearless Jewish assassins and go after our enemies preemptively.”
“Sounds expensive,” Rabin said.
“Money is available. Our agents will operate on every continent. They’ll identify our enemies and eliminate them. We’ll muzzle up preachers who plant seeds of hate, silence demagogues who fan anti-Semitic flames, and bring down the businessmen who sponsor the factories of hate and terror. Under me, Mossad will act as a powerful antidote—dispensing the ultimate vaccination against infectious anti-Semitism.”
General Rabin tossed his cigarette over the low wall. “Human beings are not a disease.”
“Some humans are a deadly virus that must be eradicated.”
“Viral strains can be controlled, not eradicated.”
“A few might slip through the cracks,” Elie conceded. “But even they will know that those with Jewish blood on their hands—or on their minds!—will never sleep in peace again. We’ll hunt them to the ends of the earth.
Counter Final Solution!
”
General Rabin peered at him through creased eyes. “You’re a dangerous man, Weiss.”
O
ne of the guys whistled, which reminded Lemmy they were not alone. He let go of Tanya. “I was looking for you at the parade. But there were so many people—”
“I didn’t know you’d be there,” she said. “Could have saved me the long drive.”
“You missed me?”
Her eyes smiled and hurt at the same time. She reached up and caressed his hair. “I have bad news.”
“You’re leaving for Europe?”
“No, not yet. It’s about your mother.” Tanya held his hands. “She passed away.”
He heard her words, but they didn’t sound real. How could his mother be dead? “That’s impossible.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“But she wasn’t sick.”
“I wish it wasn’t true, but she died yesterday and, you know, buried last night.” That wasn’t unusual, because Talmud required same-day burial in Jerusalem, lest the rotting dead sullied the holy city.
“It’s my father!” Lemmy kicked the dirt, filled with sudden rage. “He broke her heart! I hate him!”
Tanya waited while he informed his commanding officer and packed a small bag.
The car struggled up the Judean Mountains, its small engine screaming in a high pitch. The narrow road detoured around Arab villages. She steered through tight curves, avoided gaping potholes, and passed under precipitous boulders that seemed ready to drop. She stopped at the side of the road while long military convoys made their way to the Negev Desert. Army trucks towed tanks, heavy artillery, and armored personnel carriers. Civilian trucks with hastily brushed-on camouflage ferried troops, most of them reservists still in their street clothes.
Lemmy watched in silence. He pushed away any thoughts of his mother, of his life before the army. That boy in Neturay Karta had been someone else, not him.
It was dark when they entered Jerusalem. Tanya drove quickly through the narrow streets. Closer to the border, Lemmy saw Orthodox men dig trenches under the glare of electric lights. Women carried heavy shopping bags with food in anticipation of shortages. It was a far cry from the jubilant mood at this morning’s Independence Day Parade.
A
s the sun was rising, Elie Weiss made his way through the narrow alleys of Meah Shearim to the small apartment where Rabbi Abraham Gerster had resided for almost two decades. He climbed the stairs and found the front door ajar, as was customary during the mourning period, letting out the voices of chanting men and the aroma of baking bread.
A mirror in the foyer was covered with black cloth, and men in black coats swayed while reciting prayers. Someone handed Elie a prayer book, and he stood by the wall, pretending to read from it. He took quick glances, registering the open doors to a dining room on the left, a hallway straight ahead, and a study on the right, all filled with men.
Rabbi Gerster was leading the service. Elie could not see him, but the tone of his voice said it all, and for a moment Elie was beset by regrets. He had not expected this to happen, had not wished it to happen, and should not be responsible. It had been Abraham’s mistake. He had insisted on marrying Temimah, arguing that a wife would be necessary for a leader in Neturay Karta. And he had compounded that mistake by satisfying his wife’s initial childbearing urges. Eighteen years ago, Abraham had dismissed Jerusalem’s birth as a token of happiness for his wife. Now she had paid back that token, plus interest, and Abraham would contend with grief and guilt and anger for the rest of his life. But from an operational point of view, Elie noted to himself, the woman’s departure eliminated a major risk of exposure, which her intimate presence in Abraham’s life had always threatened.
Everyone quieted down when the rabbi recited the Kaddish. He reached the last sentence of the mourners’ prayer: “
He who brings Shalom to heaven …
” The men joined him for the last words, “
He shall bring Shalom upon us and upon all the people of Israel, and we say Amen.
”
While the men removed the black straps of their
tefillin
and folded their prayer shawls, a few women in long sleeves and tight headdresses brought out bread and coffee. The men lined up to wash their hands, recited a blessing, and ate quickly.
Elie watched them file into the study, each man sitting for a few seconds next to Rabbi Gerster and reciting the traditional shiva farewell: “
God shall comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem, and you shall not know sorrow again.
” As they departed, the men glanced at Elie, who stood in the foyer in his plain khakis and wool cap, clearly out of place in Neturay Karta. He made sure to keep his face down, pretending to recite Psalms. No one asked him anything—a house of mourning was open to all who wished to pay a shiva call.
When the apartment finally emptied, he entered the study.
Rabbi Gerster was sitting on a low cot without a mattress, as was the custom during the seven days of mourning. His blue eyes were half-closed, his face gray. He looked up. “
You?
”
It was a loaded question. This visit violated the strict rules of separation they had followed for two decades. But Elie had a reason to take this risk. “I had to bring you my condolences in person. It’s a tragedy. Absolutely terrible.”
“I told you. It was killing her.”
“If we could only turn back the clock.”
“I shouldn’t have waited.”
“But you reached out to the boy, didn’t you?”
“Temimah wrote to him, but he didn’t respond. I can’t understand it. Why couldn’t he at least send a short reply, a postcard, something?”
Elie didn’t respond. What could he say? That Jerusalem Gerster had not received any letters? That he had no knowledge of his mother’s repeated pleas? That his letters had to be diverted, or he surely would have responded? No, Abraham should never know why his son had not responded, because in his web of conflicting loyalties and heightened emotions, even an accomplished agent of his caliber couldn’t accept that it was necessary to isolate the boy, who had a destiny to fulfill.
“It would have been different if we moved out of Neturay Karta. It would have given my son a message, louder and clearer than a hundred letters, that we really forgive him, accept him, want him back. And then she would still be alive.”
It was true. Abraham had wanted to relocate so that his son and wife could reunite, but he had agreed to wait. Duty came first. That’s why Elie had never contemplated starting a family of his own, which by its nature necessitated painful choices at the expense of loved ones. And the leader of Neturay Karta could not just get up and leave, especially not on the eve of war, when it would not be beyond the messianic elements in the sect to advocate a treasonous patronage pact with the Jordanians, as some in Neturay Karta had proposed back in 1948.
The cot creaked under Rabbi Gerster. “I sent a telegram to him yesterday. Look at it.”
On the desk rested a carbon copy of a postal telegram. Elie picked it up, though there was no need. He had the original in his pocket, having received it last night from his contact at the IDF postmaster office, who had intercepted the telegram on its way to the Negev. But for the sake of appearance, Elie held the copy and read it:
Jerusalem; your mother went to be with the Master of the Universe; she is at peace now; please come home to sit Shiva for her; she loved you more than life itself; signed: your father, Rabbi Abraham Gerster;
“I’m sure your son is on his way here,” Elie lied. “Perhaps he’s delayed by all the military convoys.”
“I don’t think so.” He reached inside his black coat and pulled out another telegram.
Elie took it and again pretended to read, though he had drafted and sent it to this apartment last night—a short and clear response on behalf of Abraham’s son:
Rabbi Gerster; you’re not my father anymore; I am free of your cruelty; and so is Mother, who will no longer suffer under you; signed: Jerusalem Gerster;
Elie put down the telegram. “The boy must be upset. He’ll come around eventually, I’m sure of it.”
“But this response has maliciousness in it, which I’ve never seen in my son. I don’t understand it.”
“He was responding to the news—”
“I must find him, speak with him. After the shiva, I will travel to his base and talk to him.”
“You might cause the opposite result to what you’re hoping to achieve.”
“Why?”
“Give the boy some time. Don’t contact him for a while.” This was Elie’s purpose in visiting Abraham in person—to keep the father and son apart. “Let him work it out emotionally. For a few months, at least.”
“But I’m worried about him. Such anger could cause Jerusalem to take unnecessary risk. You know how it is when one is consumed by anger.”
Elie nodded. “Do you want me to make some calls, check on him?”
“Yes! Get the IDF to assign him to an office, a clerical job. For now. He’s very smart, almost fluent in German. Some English too.”