TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
April 1964
Carmel received a letter from America. The red, brown, and blue fifteen- cent Montgomery Blair stamp thrilled her, it would be a new one for her collection. But who did she know in America? She checked again that it really was her name on the envelope, and turned it over and over. She found a knife, worked it beneath the flap, and slit the envelope open neatly to preserve the stamp.
Dear Carmel,
You don’t know me but I hope that we can become pen pals. My grandparents adopted your uncle, Peter Berg, when he was a boy in America. I heard a lot of stories about “the little Jewish boy” and now he is an important man in your government. I would love to know about you and your life and your country. I don’t even know if your English is good enough to read this, but it is certainly better than my Jewish, ha ha …
Alice Wilson explained that in a letter to her grandmother Peter had suggested she write because she and Carmel were almost the same age. She hoped it was all right. Alice wrote about her junior high school, the neat boy who lived opposite, Gadi Bronson, and her life in Taos, New Mexico. She loved to ski, hike in the mountains, swim in the lakes, although the water was icy cold, and her favorite television programs were The Dick Van Dyke Show, Gunsmoke, and Walt Disney Presents.
Carmel was excited to have an American friend and wrote back immediately in the best English she could. The news that she couldn’t watch the television programs because Israel didn’t have TV both amused and horrified Alice, who replied that her greatest ambition now was to visit Israel, for a country without television must be a very special place. What did Carmel do all day?
Carmel couldn’t wait to see her parents. “Daddy, can Alice come and stay with us?”
“Of course,” Arie said. “Maybe when she’s a bit older, it’s a long way to come alone. In the meantime you could work harder at English. Would you like a private teacher? I can get someone from the office. Maybe you can go to America one day. You can run my New York office.”
“Really? I didn’t know you had one.”
“I don’t, but by the time you’re old enough, I will. That’s going to be the biggest market. Bigger than Europe.”
“Can I, really? I could leave school, go there soon…”
Arie laughed. “Not so fast. School, army, university, marriage, babies, there’s a lot to do in life. Let’s just start with English lessons, that’s important. More important than German. Which reminds me, I must go, I’m meeting Peter for lunch.”
“Tell him thank you for introducing me to Alice. I haven’t seen Peter for ages.”
“I will.” He kissed her on the forehead and each cheek and went to the car, where Yaacov was waiting to drive him to town.
“Where to, boss?”
“Dizengoff Street. Keton. Lunch with Peter.”
“Ha. Good luck.”
“I’ll need it.”
It was a silent drive. He was getting fed up with Peter. Tamara always complained that he judged her and criticized her, which he didn’t. But Peter did to him. He never stopped playing the older brother. Who needs this? What did Peter want to talk about this time? He could guess, the same old story: “Tamara, she deserves better.” What does he know; they hadn’t had sex for three months. “Spend more time with the children. Grow up. Life is about more than money.” Oh yes?
The only thing he looked forward to was the chicken soup with kreplach. And the apple strudel with vanilla ice cream.
Keton was a landmark, a restaurant older than the state, that began as a kiosk serving ice cream and watermelon and was now famed for its chicken schnitzel and potato salad, as well as stuff from the shtetl he wouldn’t touch, like ptcha and kishke.
They met at the door at 12:30. “Two yekkes,” Arie said, taking Peter’s hand. “The only two punctual Israelis.”
“Have you booked?” Sara, the owner, said, as she always did, indicating the empty restaurant. Peter laughed, as usual. “Please try to squeeze us in.” On purpose he led the way to a corner table. He knew Arie loved to sit by the window or outside on the sidewalk where people could see him and he could greet them with his regal wave. The mogul with the big cigar. Peter preferred the anonymity of a table by the wall. “Look,” he said, nudging Arie. “The heavy man with the hat who just sat down outside? Igael Tumarkin. The artist.”
“I just bought one of his sculptures. For the office lobby. He thinks a lot of himself.”
“You mean it was expensive.”
“Any luck with the ladies?” Arie asked, but regretted it; it was a clear segue to Tamara.
“Not as much as you,” Peter replied, inspecting the menu. “Actually, that’s a sore point.”
“Why? Sounds interesting.”
“Believe me, it isn’t.”
“Try me.” Arie hoped to distract Peter from his sermon of the day. But Peter trod lightly: He was glad Carmel was happy with her new pen pal. Things were quiet at work. Little Diana liked to dance but every time she tried the hora she spun and fell over. The sweetest thing. After they ordered apple strudel and Peter started on Noah and Ezra’s schoolwork, Arie had to interrupt.
“Sorry, Peter, not that your boys’ Torah classes don’t fascinate me, but you said there was something you wanted to talk about?”
Peter took a long drink of his beer and set it down with a sigh.
“Actually, yes. You’re in trouble.”
“So what’s new?”
“No. I mean real trouble.”
Now what? Arie thought. Loans due? Interest. Banks. Debt repayments. Surely he doesn’t know about Miriam. “Why? What do you mean?”
“A journalist is working on an old police case.”
“So?”
“The Schwartz file, the guy they found near the Yarkon River.”
“Him? That was ten years ago. And it had nothing to do with me. Not that anybody knows, anyway. It was an accident. I don’t have anything to worry about.”
“I’m not so sure. He found that English policeman, Ludlow, who Harel closed down. He’s retired now, lives in Ashdod, and he’s got a big mouth.”
Arie leaned forward, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles. He scanned the restaurant, which was filling up. Three people had joined Tumarkin, artist types.
“Ludlow told him the top floor closed the case,” Peter continued. “He knows there’s a Mossad connection.”
“So isn’t that the end of the road for him, then?”
“No. It just makes it a better story.”
“What can happen?”
“Worst case? He writes a dramatic story, they reopen the murder investigation, and you’re the main suspect.”
Arie’s lips tightened. “Could they?”
“Depends what he learns. You were seen arguing with Schwartz. Your sister-in-law Diana asked for his police file. Ludlow found out. Harel got the police chief to close the file.”
“Well, he can’t interview Diana.”
“Lucky you.”
“That’s not what I meant. But why does he care so much? It happened a decade ago.”
“I don’t know. Cold murder case? Police cover-up? Mossad?” Peter watched two couples sit at tables nearby. He lowered his voice further. “The name of the millionaire Arie Nesher comes up. It’s a good story for a young up-and-comer trying to make a name for himself.”
“What’s his name?”
“Yoram Shemesh.”
“You said he’s young? How young?”
“Nineteen.”
“What? Nineteen?” Arie wrote the name on a napkin, then tore it up. No records. “That’s all? Why isn’t he in the army?”
“He got some kind of deferment. Unfit to serve.”
“I bet he is,” Arie said. “Who is he writing this rubbish for?”
“He’s a freelancer. HaOlam HaZeh is interested.”
“That left-wing rag.”
He’s cool as a cucumber, Peter thought, but hard. All he wants to do is fight back. Never underestimate him. “You know the editor, Uri Avnery; a police cover-up is right up his street.”
“I’ll get someone to do a story on the kid, get him before he gets me. If he avoided army service, let’s get him on that. Did he lie to get out of serving? Is he a pacifist, a conscientious objector? Maybe he’s got a police record himself? How close is he to publishing something? I’ve got a couple of big deals going through, bad publicity could rock the boat.”
“Don’t be stupid, Arie. If you plant a story against him, he’ll find out it came from you and that will make it worse. It’s probably better at this stage to lie low, don’t draw attention to yourself.” That’ll be the day. Lying low was not his brother’s forte. “There’s something else,” Peter said.
“Don’t tell me it gets worse. What?”
“About something else. About Tamara.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, there’s enough on my mind right now,” Arie hissed, hitting the table with the palm of his hand. The young couple two tables away looked up at the bang. “Mind your own business.”
“You talking to me or them?” Peter said, pulling back slowly from the table, his calculating eye’s fixed on his brother’s. Arie’s burst of anger faced Peter’s cold appraisal, for with one phrase from Arie, they both understood their fight was in the open: Tamara was Peter’s business, and always had been.
Peter finally asked the question whose answer he already knew. “The letter I gave you, years ago, before you married her, for Tamara. You never gave it to her, did you.”
“What letter?”
“You know very well. When we first met Tamara, and I went away on a job, I gave you a letter for her, asking her to wait for me. You didn’t give it to her, did you?”
“What? When? Fifteen years ago? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You have a very selective memory, don’t you.” Peter said.
Arie shifted in his chair, folded his arms. “It’s true, I block some things out,” Arie said. “That’s how I carry on. But a letter for Tamara? No, never happened.”