HERZLIYA, ISRAEL
March 1950
After Peter had left, Tamara hadn’t known what to think. She certainly felt different: Could she be pregnant? She shivered at the thought and, with no word from Peter, she felt abandoned. He said he couldn’t contact her. Why not? Of course he could, if he wanted to. Arie had said so.
Nobody must ever know what she had done, especially her parents, who would never understand her moment of weakness, that beautiful moment of passion. In Israel, everything had changed, values were upside down. The strong became weak, respect was an empty word, European Jews ruled. This land had promised so much and given so little: They still lived in a tent with no real work.
And now here was Arie, bearing presents and promises. Could she tell him about Peter? No, never. Arie was kind and generous and sweet. Could she love Arie, after making love with his brother? Or was Arie’s wealth turning her head, a ticket out of the misery of the camp?
Whatever was happening, it was happening fast, though not as fast as with Peter, thank God. She had resisted Arie once, and since then he hadn’t tried again. They snuggled together on the bed, to keep warm as much as anything else, and that was all. Sometimes they dozed, but mostly they talked. And she already knew that for all his humor and strength, Arie was in pain. If she needed somebody to speak to, Arie needed it more.
It was a joke that had made Arie talk about the bluish, vein-like numbers, 126497, tattooed on his forearm, and then Tamara wished he hadn’t.
She had laughed when he told her his name had been Aren Berg before he changed it to Arie ben Nesher, which meant Lion, son of the Eagle.
“How noble,” she had said, “how powerful. King of the jungle, master of the skies. The New Israeli.”
“If you think that’s funny,” he had replied, “what about my friend Dov, remember him, the taxi driver?”
“What about him?”
“Paul Kokotek was his name in Poland. Here he’s Dov ben Arie, Bear, son of Lion. And then there’s Sammy Schnitzler, you don’t know him. Here he’s Natanel—Gift of God. Everyone reinvents himself here; it’s wishful thinking. It’s like a snake shedding damaged skin. No more diaspora Jew, here, they’re reborn as fighters, at least in name.”
It was cold that evening as they had huddled beneath the blanket by the little electric heater, its one bar glowing red in the dark, like a warning.
“You’re strong,” Tamara had said, thinking of nothing but the hardness of his body. But she had felt his body tense and he went silent. What is it? she thought.
“You don’t know how right you are,” he had finally replied. She had said, “What do you mean?”
In the same way he had to eat, had to sleep, had to breathe, sooner or later he had to tell someone something; it was too much to bear alone. Outside, he was a hevreman, one of the guys, while inside, he was drying up.
Indeed, he had been strong: a fighter. In Auschwitz, where Jews fought Jews and if you won you lived to fight again, like a gladiator. In Rome, if you lost, you were fed to the beasts. In Auschwitz, you were fed to the ovens, and you rose to heaven in a column of smoke.
* * *
It had been nearly six years since the SS had abandoned Auschwitz a gasp ahead of the Soviet troops. But for Arie, liberation did not mean he was safe. There would be a different danger, it would be payback time. Already, he had seen packs of inmates kick and beat SS guards to death while their Russian liberators cheered.
Tamara had sensed the tension in Arie’s body as he forced himself to break his vow of silence. His voice was low, she strained to hear. “I mean … you’re right. I was … strong, a fighter. They made some of us fight.” He spoke haltingly, as if hearing each word for the first time, describing a nightmare, something he barely believed, a horror divorced from the safety of this moment by the heater with the girl he was beginning to love. “The Kommandant, the guards, they arranged boxing matches, you got extra food, you didn’t have to work so hard, they kept us alive so we could fight to the death, or near death.” Now it was Tamara, hanging on every word, whose body went tense. “I kept winning, so I kept fighting, and I stayed alive. For months, that went on. I don’t know how I was such a fighter, I was always bigger and stronger than everyone else at school, but it wasn’t about winning. It was about surviving; I suppose I wanted to stay alive more than anyone else did. It was like a dogfight, all the guards yelling, drunk, betting. We were an entertainment for the Nazis.”
Tamara could hardly breathe as she listened. Her breath came in sharp intakes, she felt the hair rise on her neck, barely comprehending that the body next to hers, the hand that gripped hers too tightly, the feet that lay over hers, this kind man could have done such things.
“They didn’t let us stop until there was blood. A lot of it. I don’t know how many I beat. I as good as killed them, they were bleeding on the ground and were taken to the ovens, or they were shot. But it was them or me. That’s the truth.” He stopped suddenly. He breathed in as deeply as he could and heaved the deepest sigh she had ever heard.
“Yes, I was strong. So I got more food. And the other Jews didn’t like it. They hated me. But I lived. And now here I am.” He paused. “Here we are.” He sighed again, and felt relief, but not for long. Now he felt shame. And fear, as Tamara lay silently beside him. He had exposed himself. For what? It could only harm him; he shouldn’t have said a word. Just because she said he was strong?
He pushed her hand away.
She felt tears in her eyes, and noticed herself edging away from his tense body. He was breathing fast, almost panting. Was he feeling it now, was it still so real? She couldn’t imagine such a memory, such a reality, such a life. And he said he had only been a fighter for a few months. What else had he done to survive for years? He had said that her worst nightmares were better than what he woke up to each morning. Now, beneath the cozy blanket, he had uncovered his soul: how he must suffer.
Yet after a few minutes, when she glanced at him, she saw that his eyes were closed, his face was relaxed, his breaths were shallow and easy. He had unburdened himself and she wished she could do the same. There was nobody to tell: Her period was late and she was frightened. She had been irregular for months because of all the changes in her life, the new diet, but … but now it was different. She had made love with a man.
She heard Arie mutter something. “What?” she whispered, “I couldn’t hear.”
He said it again. She moved closer, put her ear to his mouth. “I can’t hear.”
His breath tickled. “I said, thank you.”