TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
October 1964
Moshe thumped the final key and called out “Done!” to the walls of his living room. The headline always came to him last, when he had finished writing the column: “Murder in the City of Light”—Yes! He liked the “Light” reference: it was ironic, it played off how dark the story was.
When Mahmoud al-Faradis was shot dead by the cheese stall of the Rue de la Gaîté market in Montparnasse, French tabloids called it payback for gambling debts, a cover story the French police put out.
But Moshe had two solid sources for the real story behind the murder of the Egyptian army officer. The man on the motorcycle, his face hidden by goggles and a helmet, who shot al-Faradis three times in the head and raced away along Avenue du Maine, was a hit man for a rival Palestinian group fighting Yasser Arafat’s new Palestine Liberation Organization. Moshe’s third paragraph quoted an Israeli intelligence source: “The Palestinians are organizing against Israel but already they kill each other. It’s a sign of how fragmented and weak they really are, despite all their empty threats.”
Peter chuckled the next day when he read the newspaper. He must remember to congratulate Moshe on his “scoop.” And also the guys on the information desk who had planted the false story that Moshe had picked up. There was nobody better than Mossad at planting disinformation and sowing discord. Moshe’s inaccurate column would be picked up by the international media, translated into Arabic, and pretty soon the so-called Palestinians really would be killing each other.
“You shouted ‘Done.’ What’s done?” Tamara said as she entered Moshe’s living room, laden with groceries. She kissed her father on the forehead at the dining table where he worked, and carried the bags to the kitchen, calling out, “Ima.”
“Your mother’s out, she had to go to school to talk with the principal about Peter’s boys. More trouble. It’s all getting a bit much.”
“What is it this time?” Tamara said from the door.
“Don’t know.”
Tamara returned minutes later with two glasses of mint tea. “What’s done?” she asked again.
“Oh, my next column, let’s not talk about that now. I wanted to ask you something. About Arie.”
“Not that again. Please, Abba, don’t ask.”
“What again?”
“Us. Me. Him.”
“What about you? Is everything all right? I wanted to ask you about his business. I read he’s investing even more heavily in industry and construction in development towns, and expanding his garages and service stations. I want you to tell him not to invest so much. I think the economy is going to stop booming and slow down dramatically…”
“It isn’t his money,” Tamara interrupted. “It never is, it’s investors, bank loans … and anyway, he’s interested in politics, he thinks investment in these places will help him climb inside Mapai. He’s thinking of his future, maybe Parliament. God help Israel.”
Moshe laughed. “Prime Minister Arie Nesher. At least he gets things done. But as for the economy, he has to pay interest, and eventually pay back the loans. My next column will be about the recession around the corner. It’s been too good here, too long. And it isn’t based on production, that’s what I’ve been researching.” He stirred two sugars into the tea. “The boom is based on German reparations money flooding the country, American aid, Israel bonds, it’s all smoke and mirrors, it can’t last. Arie may be one of the richest men in Israel, but he’s also by far the most overextended. His debts vastly exceed his assets. I’ve been studying it. He needs to retrench before the recession hits.”
“Well, he’ll be here soon, tell him yourself, you think he listens to me?”
“He should, if he’s so rich then so are you, and you’re a smart lawyer, of course he should listen to you.”
“Well that’s hard because we rarely talk. Anyway, so why do you think the economy is about to collapse?”
“Not collapse, but the prime minister’s advisers tell me Eshkol will have to rein in spending. People will have to make do with less. He’ll give a big speech soon on the economy. So this is what will happen, this is my next column: Money becomes tighter, businesses which depend on loans can’t pay the interest and collapse, people lose jobs, and at the same time immigration is slowing, fewer Jews come to live here, while others leave because it’s too hard, so there’s less demand for housing, less demand for goods, more businesses collapse, more people lose jobs, and finally people here will have to live on what they make and not on what they borrow. Two of Arie’s biggest businesses, transport and construction, will be hit hardest.”
“But why should all that happen?” Tamara asked. “The government wants more people here, not fewer. And they need homes.” But was Arie in trouble? Maybe that explained his foul mood lately.
“I told you, we’re living in a fool’s paradise. The government needs to reduce spending and increase productivity. Anyway look, what do I know, I just write a column, but I tell you, Arie needs to be careful, he’s been riding a wave and it’s hitting the rocks. I like that!” He wrote the phrase in his notebook.
A car drew up outside and the door slammed.
“Well, tell him yourself, here he is.”
The engine was still running when Arie entered the apartment. He looked around. “It’s about time you moved to a larger place, Moshe. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Ah, the perfect opening for me,” Moshe said. “No thanks, Arie, I’ll stay right here where I can afford it. And if I were you I’d take another look at my finances.”
“Why, what’s wrong with your finances?”
“Funny guy. I meant yours.”
“What do you mean? Things were never better. Darling,” he said, turning to Tamara, “I can’t stay after all, Yaacov is waiting to take me to a meeting, I just wanted to say hello to your parents. Moshe, how are you, apart from giving me financial advice, which I think you’re not exactly qualified to do, no disrespect intended.”
“None taken.”
“What kind of meeting?” Tamara asked again.
“Business of course. Moshe, don’t worry, everything’s on the up. The country’s exports are close to a billion US dollars, Israel is barely sixteen years old and already we’re about fifteenth in the world in per capita GNP, we’re producing most of what we eat. In short, stop pissing in the tent.”
“Yes, all true, but we’re spending way too much on the military, more than ten percent of the budget, inflation is rising every year…”
Tamara interrupted. “Another business meeting? Who with this time? Batia? Naomi?…”
“Enough!” Arie raised his voice so that Moshe looked up sharply. “I told you this morning, you’re fantasizing, there’s no one else, it’s all in your head.” He all but shouted the last word and emphasized it with a fist.
Tamara almost hissed. “Not in front of Abba. Go, then. Go to her, whichever one it is. Don’t come back.” Her body tensed, she felt the muscle in her arm. Oh, how she’d like to slap him. “Go on, get out.”
Arie shook his head, as if in disbelief. “I’ll come home as soon as I can.”
She slammed the door after him, muttering to herself, “Yes, at four in the morning.”
When she turned, Moshe was staring at his notes.
“Sorry, Abba,” Tamara said quietly.
After a moment he said, “I am too,” and held out his hand. Tamara took it and sat down heavily next to him. They sipped their tea, until Moshe dared break the silence.
“How bad is it?”
Seconds passed. Tamara’s shoulders trembled. She squeezed her father’s hand until it hurt, and a tear fell from her eye. And then another, and another, until she was sobbing in Moshe’s arms, while he stroked her head, wishing he could find the right words to comfort his daughter. How long could she bear that man?
Rachel entered the room but before she could react he shushed her with a finger to his lips. Arie, he mouthed.
After a final sob that turned into a grunt of frustration, Tamara slipped away from her father’s arms and hit the table in vexation. “Look at me,” she said, half to herself, drying her cheeks and trying to laugh. “My job is to help people look after themselves. But I can’t help myself.”
“What can you do, that’s life,” her mother called, striding across the room, opening a package. “Here, have some cake, it’s Egyptian cinnamon, Peter’s girlfriend Etti made it. What a cook, it’s delicious. Have a slice, you’ll feel a lot better, my dear.”