Chapter 25 – Aron: Hope

My Dearest Brother,

Hope came to visit me. It flitted, skittish and moth-like, around the candleflame of my soul. It danced just out of reach, and I knew that if I reached out to grasp it, it would dissipate. So, I simply watched and took comfort in its illusive presence.

Then it flew into the flame. The stench of its death-smoke still taints my nose.

This fleeting glimpse of hope was born, I realize now, not of presence but of absence. Of love’s memory, not of love itself. It came from my too-transient taste of love’s delicacy. It came from his melting smile, which I still see every time I look over my shoulder, and the tingle of his breath, which I still feel on my neck when I wake.

My hope stemmed also from the African front. Maybe, I thought for the briefest of moments, there is hope for all of us. Maybe there is hope for you and me, as well.

And now I know there is none.

They were shards of glass, the sharp corners of myself that needed to be expunged so they wouldn’t cut me from inside. And it didn’t matter, I had long lied to myself, whether they were ever actually shared. I knew for whom they were intended, and had thus communicated what I needed. The response, I rationalized, was immaterial.

Now, I understood that the response one receives from a shared feeling defines, in a very real way, the feeling that follows it. It is the symbiosis of love—thought feeding off thought, touch feeding off touch—that makes it so powerful. It cannot be, and is never, a one-way street.

I knew this because I’d been on a one-way street for more than a decade. I’d emotionally divorced my parents, and by association, Samuel, when I left for Palestine. I’d loved them in a vague, reminiscent sense, yet I’d had no need to share with them. After all, they only knew Old Aron—the child of icy cobblestones, lumbering streetcars that took unsuspecting limbs, and unforgivable violence in the summer Vistula mud. They didn’t know New Aron. There was no connection between the two, I thought. I had become the new Jew, taking part in the ideological adventure called Zionism. This had, by definition, transformed into me into New Aron—freed of the shackles and repercussions of my past.

Yet New Aron never quite expunged Old Aron. He would return, frequently and accusingly. I reside inside you, he would say in the darkest hours of a lonely night. I will never leave.

I signed my name, sealed the envelope, addressed it post restante to Aqaba, and set it aside to mail in the morning. With any luck, it would await my brother’s arrival in Aqaba. The last letter I’d received from him was from Bandar Shahpur. The letter had been written in a strange hand, with no explanation, yet it was signed Samuel, and the words were clearly his. Surely, he must have been close by now.

In my letter, I provided instructions to him for accessing my flat in my absence. I left a key and instructions with a neighbor, and another letter to Samuel on my desk. I would be in Helwan, near Cairo, indefinitely.

Look at this as an opportunity, Bert had said in the meeting in Jaffa. It would be an opportunity to bring my skills to bear on a truly pressing challenge. It would be an opportunity to learn a skill that could be of great use to the Hagana. It would be an opportunity to prove myself worthy of the renewed trust the Yishuv’s leadership had placed in me, following what was—after all—a grave violation of trust.

I had my own thoughts as to whether being sent to within kilometers of the North African front was opportunity or punishment. However, I had no choice in the matter, and it did give me an opportunity of sorts: the opportunity to be absent when Samuel arrived in Tel Aviv.

My journey to Helwan began, in essence, with my walk to the bus station in Jerusalem following my release from the Central Palestine Prison. I felt as if Heathcliff’s palm print lingered fresh on my cheek, yet the sky above Jerusalem was clear and tepid. Slowly, my newfound freedom sunk in, and I began to bask in the sunshine of my own false confidence. Idioms of salvation bounced through my mind: I’d dodged the bullet; the hangman’s rope had broken; my ship had missed the reef. I had come out ahead.

Hours later—disheveled, starving, yet markedly heartened—I disembarked the green snout-nosed Egged Ford with a new spring in my step, and hopped down into the noise of Tel Aviv’s new central bus station, opened just months previously. I smiled at the white rounded concrete roofs that covered each platform of this admirably modern transportation hub—the largest in the region, it was said. I flipped a two mil coin to the boy selling elliptical bagela rolls, sprinkled zaatar on the still-steaming white insides from a package made of a twist of newsprint, and ate ravenously.

The fall sun shone hotter now, and Tel Aviv’s humidity pressed in. Cars honked, people jostled, hawkers trailed and called. The burgeoning city, frantically trying to live its life despite the yoke of doom dragging at its head, threatened to engulf, devour, and assimilate me—as it had so many times before—yet I paid it no mind. For the first time in weeks, I was pleased with myself, not only for being saved from prison, but also for formulating a viable plan of action during the bumpy ride down from Jerusalem. For the moment, I had—if not actual hope itself—at least a clear view of hope, which waited for me just beyond the horizon.

I walked to the nearest taxi stand and took an extravagantly expensive cab straight to Kofer HaYishuv. When the heavy wooden lobby door swung shut behind me, it cut off both my uncertainty and the noise of the street. I climbed the smooth stairs and marched into Aharon Bert’s outer office. I smiled sweetly at Dvora, Bert’s buxom and overprotective secretary, also rumored to be his lover. Her lipstick-gilded lips began to open in protest, but quickly formed an open-mouthed silent snarl as I marched past her.

I entered Bert’s office, closed the door behind me, and stood in front of my boss’ desk with my hat in my hand until he looked up.

He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, and beads of sweat bobbed between the wisps of hair crisscrossing his broad forehead, despite the mighty chugging of his electric desk fan and the late summer breeze drifting through the large street-facing windows. He took me in with his soft, shrewd eyes, raised one eyebrow in interest, mopped his brow with a once-white handkerchief, and leaned back to hear what I had to say.

I took a deep breath, and proceeded to succinctly and calmly tell the Chairman of Kofer HaYishuv, whom I knew had the ear of the highest levels of the Hagana leadership, everything. With the glaring exception of the would-be rapist’s killing, I left out no detail about my arrest, Heathcliff, and the exact nature of my relationship with Sean.

Bert listened with the impassive interest of one whose wisdom and experience frequently vanquished his dismay. When I finished, he nodded coolly and called out loudly for Dvora to order his car. To me, he said simply, “Wait here.”

So I waited, sipping a glass of tepid water grudgingly provided by Dvora, watching cars meander by on the street below Bert’s office. It had gone well, I reflected. Bert seemed to understand that this was no rash confession on my part. I was not throwing myself at his mercy, for what I’d realized on the bus ride from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv was that my position, far from being disadvantageous, had in fact never been more valuable.

In turning to Bert, in baring my soul in the most dangerous way possible, I’d banked on the fact that I had value as a British agent. I could serve as a natural conduit through which the Hagana could pass on whatever information they desired. This, I was sure, would trump any outrage over my conduct or perceived moral indelicacies. Despite the Hagana’s close wartime cooperation with the British, the long-term interests of each side clearly remained at odds. Owing to this ongoing yet quiet rivalry, they would regard me—I believed—with understanding.

Two hours later, Bert returned. An hour after that, I was back in my flat. The following morning, I was back at my desk. The gamble seemed to have paid off. Far from being a traitor whose life was destined to be short, I would be—if not celebrated—at least tolerated and put to good use.

I started that day with a grim smile. Davar carried news of a bomb that killed two and wounded twenty at the Paris screening of a notoriously vile antisemitic propaganda film, The Jew Suss.

My schadenfreude was short-lived, however. The bus from Tel Aviv to Ramat Gan arrived late, its wooden benches already packed. I finally walked up the stairs to the second floor of the Kofer HaYishuv building ten minutes late. I tried to slink past Bert’s office, but a smirking Dvora hailed me, informing me that Bert had assigned me yet another old account ledger. He’d been doing this all week, ostensibly using me to prepare for an audit that we both knew was unlikely to materialize. He’d likely designed this boring work to keep me busy while the Hagana leadership masticated my story, trying to decide whether to swallow me or spit me out.

After a day of inhaling old ledger dust and meaningless columns of figures, I finally stood at one minute before 4 p.m. with my timecard in hand. As the minute hand of the time clock clicked forward, I shoved my card into the slot and received a satisfying click in reward. I walked down the stairs, thinking of Samuel, missing Sean, and wondering whether I could stand another evening of silence.

The note was tucked next to the handle of the door to my flat. At first, I recoiled at its sight, but eventually gathered courage and plucked it with two fingers, much as one picks up a particularly loathsome insect. On it was printed the name and address of a coffee shop in Jaffa, and a time two hours hence. It contained no signature, but it was clear who the sender was.

I washed and groomed slowly, trying to pass the time, yet I still arrived at the coffee shop twenty minutes early. I sat on the sea wall and smoked, willing the butterflies in my stomach to calm themselves before the meeting. I had no idea what I would say to Heathcliff, or what I was even allowed to say. Hagana intelligence hadn’t yet briefed me, so I would have to think on my feet.

I ground out my cigarette, walked briskly to the coffee shop, and quickly picked out Heathcliff, facing me from his seat at an interior table. Two men sat with him, their backs to the entrance and their faces hidden from me by the shadows.

My questions were rapidly resolved as I approached the table. To my shock, Aharon Bert turned to face me, as did the man next to him, whom I recognized as Yisrael Amir, the head of the Soldier’s Welfare Committee, the cover for Hagana intelligence. My stomach dropped, and I stopped in my tracks, unsure whether to run.

Heathcliff turned, smiled at my shock, and narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Katz, how good to see you! Surely, you know my colleagues. Well, don’t just stand there like a figurative deer in the headlights, Nancy. Sit. Just try to keep your poofster hands to yourself, if you don’t mind.” He chuckled at this.

I sat, wary, but still sufficiently dumbstruck by the presence of these three together that I obeyed the order automatically.

Bert turned and addressed me in Hebrew. “Sorry for the delay, son. The three of us only find time to meet like this once a week. And ignore my rude British colleague here. We just wanted to let you know we’re already sharing all the information we need. But we do appreciate your offer and your willingness to sacrifice.”

Bert cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Look, son, here’s the thing. About those... uh... personal details we discussed. We think you might be a bit more useful to us all in a different capacity, for the time being. We need some truly urgent assistance down south. So, pack your things for an indefinite stay, and Dvora will fill you in on the details tomorrow morning.”

Heathcliff turned to Bert and interjected in fluent Hebrew. “Oh, just tell him, Bert. Don’t leave the poor girl hanging. Oh, never mind, I’ll tell her myself.” He turned to me and sneered. “Listen, darling, since you’ve proven yourself so inept at deception, your colleagues and I have decided to send you for, shall we say, training and practice in this art. So, pack your tutu, dearie, because it may be a bit hot there—in more ways than one.”

Puzzled, and more than a little revolted by Heathcliff’s crass self-satisfaction, I turned to Bert, who explained.

“Look, son, you’ve dug your own grave here. There’s no easy way around this. The Hagana leadership would be pleased to see you dead for consorting with the enemy and agreeing to spy for the British, even if you did try—somewhat clumsily—to double-cross them. Heathcliff and British Intelligence would love to see you dead for making them look like the assholes that they are. The Yishuv leadership needs you out of the way. The only reason you’re not lying in the dunes north of Tel Aviv with a bullet hole in the back of your neck is that I intervened, and suggested we send you to learn a skill that might be of use to us down the road. They reluctantly agree, and we’re attaching you to Geoffrey Barkas’s unit in Cairo—well, perhaps somewhat west of Cairo. But you’ll start off at Helwan Air Base, which is completely safe. You need to look at this as an opportunity of some relative value. The skills you can learn from these people will help you reestablish yourself when you return—”

“—if he returns,” Heathcliff snorted. “Look, Bertie, just tell it straight. We’re sending you to the front, Nancy, and without a gun. These Deception boys work right up close and personal with the Germans. But you can either stay here and die or go there and die. Personally, I don’t really care either way.” He turned to Bert and Amir, gestured impatiently, and raised his eyes to the heavens in mock supplication. “Now, can we please move on to some more savory points of discussion, like bestiality, pederasty, cannibalism, or even Zionism, for that matter?”

I stood silently, and turned to leave as Heathcliff and the others huddled their heads together and began discussing something with intensity. I walked stiffly and slowly, intent on recovering some dignity, at least, in my exit, but Heathcliff was having none of it.

Catching my retreating figure from the corner of his eye, he stood and called out loudly enough for the whole restaurant to hear. “Why so glum, Nancy?”

“Lots of nice farm animals down south, I hear. Should keep you romantically occupied for months. Best of luck to you, my girl!”

His loud bark of laughter, together with the other patrons’ puzzled amusement and Bert and Amir’s indifferent silence, stabbed me between the shoulder blades on my way out.

Hope had come to visit, then abandoned me. Samuel would come, too, and learn what I could not tell him without the necessity of my presence. Then he, like hope, could decide either to stay or to leave.

For hope, I now understood, was powerful even when fleeting. Yet even more powerful was the vacuum left by hope’s demise, and I did not want to be witness to what filled that vacuum.