Zaddik, page 39
Because they shared the same disease, because they were fellow performers in the same play, Taylor immediately felt close to this woman who just a few hours before had been a stranger. So when she told him that she didn’t want to be alone tonight, it was easy for him to invite her up to his apartment.
There was a taste of desperation in the way Carol made love. She had strong, sinewy arms, and she held on to him tightly as if to convince herself that he was real. Taylor felt her shyness dissolving beneath his kisses, felt her mouth relax, and that excited him. He knew he was breaking one of the unwritten rules by having sex with a beginner. In AA, it was called Thirteenth Stepping. But with her legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth open in a silent scream, and tears rolling down her face, he made excuses for himself. He wasn’t taking advantage of her; he was helping her. They were helping each other. And anyway, when he had put his finger inside her, he had felt a diaphragm. She had been looking for someone to spend the night with; it might as well have been him.
Afterward she curled up next to him. “You must think I’m a slut,” she said.
“Don’t be silly,” he said.
“I feel a little embarrassed,” she said. “Believe me, I don’t do things like this.”
“Things like what?”
“You know,” she said, punching his chest playfully.
“I don’t know.”
“Promise me you don’t think I’m a slut.”
“But I like sluts.” She punched him again. “All right, all right,” he said. “I don’t think you’re a slut.”
Taylor felt himself drifting away, growing sleepy.
“Dov?”
“What?”
“I’m really not a slut.”
“I know.”
Taylor woke up in the dark and looked at the glowing clock by his bed. It was three A.M., and he was alone. He sat up, listening. He heard a sound in the living room. He slid out of bed, and careful not to make a sound, he opened the bedroom door. Carol was sitting at his small desk, the light from the old-fashioned green-shaded banker’s lamp illuminating her face. She was wearing his shirt. She was looking through his papers, through his address book.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he said, and his voice sounded shockingly loud in the three A.M. quiet.
Carol’s head snapped around. The light from the lamp framed her now, giving her a halo. She stood up. The shirt fell open, revealing her breasts, her belly, the dark triangle of her crotch.
“I was restless,” she whispered. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Nothing,” she said, walking toward him. “I’m sorry. I guess I just wanted to know more about you.”
There was something alarming about this woman, Taylor thought suddenly. She was too comfortable in her nakedness. It didn’t jibe with the sense of her he had received in bed.
Taylor turned, went back into the bedroom, and flipped on the light switch. He saw Carol’s brown leather shoulder bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. He picked it up and opened it. Carol ran through the bedroom door. “What are you doing?” she said angrily, grabbing for the bag. Taylor ripped it out of her hands, and when she tried to grab it again he pushed her away. She fell backward onto the bed.
“Fair is fair,” he said, taking out her wallet and flipping it open. Her charge cards and her driver’s license agreed that her name was Carol Rosenberg. The license listed an address in the East Seventies.
“Pretty far from home, aren’t you, Carol? No meetings uptown?”
“Are you going to give me back my bag?” she asked, her voice sharp and annoyed.
“Awfully heavy, isn’t it?” Taylor turned the bag over and spilled its contents onto the sheets. He looked briefly at the makeup kit, a leatherbound date book, a pack of Merit Ultra Lights, a hairbrush, keys, a vial of pills. He picked up the bottle and looked at the prescription label. Tylenol and codeine. For pain. Filled two weeks ago. “Hurt yourself, Carol? Alcoholics shouldn’t take codeine,” Taylor said. “Even with only a few months, you ought to know that. But you’re not really an alcoholic, are you, Carol?”
“You’re crazy,” she said.
The bag still felt heavy. There was a zipper on the inside. Taylor opened it and retrieved a small, flat, automatic pistol. A Mauser. He turned to face Carol, who was lying on her back, propped up on her elbows. Her face was calm, composed. Taylor thought that she seemed utterly transformed. The affinity he had felt for her before was gone, and now she lay on his bed, naked but for his shirt, a complete stranger.
“This is a very fancy weapon,” said Taylor. He popped the clip into his palm. “Loaded, too.”
Carol shrugged. Taylor sat on the edge of the bed and lightly poked her foot with the gun. “So, lover,” he said, “I’ll bet you have something interesting to tell me.”
Carol Rosenberg sat up and pulled Taylor’s shirt around her, covering her breasts. She brushed a comma of hair off her forehead. “We’ll make a trade,” she said finally. “You tell me where you think Ladislaw Czartoryski is, and I’ll tell you why we want you to forget about him.”
“Who’s we?” Taylor asked.
“The Israeli government,” said Rosenberg. “May I have my cigarettes back?”
Chapter 60 Dov Taylor’s Apartment
Sullivan Street, SoHo
Tuesday, October 29
WHEN SARAH KALMAN called to tell him that she had found out what had happened to the Seer’s stone after it had been stolen by Josep Czartoryski, Dov Taylor told her that he was no longer interested, that he was off the case. Carol Rosenberg had done her job.
Sitting on his bed, smoking her cigarettes, Rosenberg had told Taylor that Czartoryski had been an Israeli asset for many years. After the war for independence in 1948, the fledgling Israeli secret service, the Mossad, needed covers for its agents. It needed passports, birth certificates, work histories. It needed everything, in short, that would allow its people working to get the surviving Jews out of Europe and into the new state of Israel to operate. And, as many of its agents had been born speaking German and Polish, it was only natural that the Mossad would look to those countries for help.
But they were Nazis and anti-Semites, Taylor had protested. War criminals. They were the enemy. Precisely, Rosenberg had answered. How do you think we got them to do what we wanted? Whether we had proof of their Nazi pasts or not, we said we did.
“You blackmailed them,” Taylor said.
Of course, Rosenberg said. The man you’re looking for, she said, provided our people with Polish documents. And in return we kept his past a secret from his superiors, from the Communists.
“But I thought Israel hunted war criminals. I thought you brought Nazis to trial,” Taylor said.
“Of course,” said Rosenberg. “But we also needed allies. The American government didn’t need our help back then, so we couldn’t count on them. The same was true for the British and French. But the Germans and Poles, we had something to hold over them. The Austrians, too. In ’48, they were all we had.
“Besides, German scientists and military men were all running to the Middle East, to Cairo and Beirut and Amman. They were especially busy in Egypt, helping build their army. Once we identified them, they could provide us with wonderful intelligence about the enemy, intelligence no one else could supply.
“So, once upon a time they tried to kill us. Now they could keep us alive. What was more important? Vengeance or survival? We chose to survive.”
“And Czartoryski is one of them.”
“Yes.”
“He was a Nazi, a war criminal.”
“Yes.”
“And he worked for you, for Israel.”
“He has been useful in the past.”
“And that’s why you don’t want me to find him.”
“Yes.”
“No deal,” said Taylor.
“You don’t understand, Dov. This man, he’s no longer of any use to us. For many reasons. He was supposed to do something for us and he hasn’t. We’re not asking you to leave him alone so we can protect him. Do you understand? We’re not going to protect him.”
“You’re going to bring him to trial?”
“No. That would be impossible.”
“You mean embarrassing. It wouldn’t look good, would it, if people found out that Israel’s been working with ex-Nazis.”
Carol Rosenberg stood up and began to get dressed. “Believe it or not, Dov, we don’t want to see you get hurt. We don’t want you interfering, getting yourself killed. We know about the diamond, too. Trust me, it does not belong to the people who hired you.”
“Who does it belong to, then?”
“To us.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ve told you what I can. I hope that’s enough for you to make the right decision. It has to be enough.”
“How did you find me?” Taylor asked.
“We’ve had you under surveillance for a long time. Ever since you visited the Satmarer rebbe. When anyone visits the rebbe, we notice. The Satmarers are very anti-Israel, you know. We’re interested in all the Hasidim. They’re becoming very powerful.”
Where had Taylor heard that before? Then, suddenly, it all fell into place.
“Phil is one of yours, isn’t he? Phil Horowitz. He’s Mossad.”
“May I have my bag back?” Rosenberg asked.
“A diamond courier would make a terrific agent, wouldn’t he? He travels all over on a legitimate passport. And he could give you information on what the Hasids were up to. Did you recruit him before or after he became a Hasid? Or is he a Hasid? Is he a phony like you?”
“I don’t know anyone except the man I work for.”
“You bastards set me up, didn’t you? You used Horowitz to set me up because you were protecting Czartoryski. ‘We don’t want to see you get hurt,’ ” Taylor said, mimicking Rosenberg. “Bullshit. You almost got me killed. Then, when you couldn’t kill me, you set a honey trap. Do I get to fuck you again if I lay off? Is that my reward? Because if it is, let me tell you, sweetheart, it just wasn’t that great.”
“I’m sorry you’re so angry.”
“You’re sorry you screwed up.”
“May I have my gun, too?”
Taylor handed Rosenberg her gun.
“And the clip?”
“I’ll keep the clip,” he said.
“You don’t trust me,” she said.
“I can’t imagine why not,” Taylor said.
Later, after Rosenberg had left, Taylor sat in his kitchen, drinking coffee until dawn. He remembered what his grandfather Sam had told him about the Nazis, about how President Eisenhower was a Nazi. Didn’t he save the Germans from the Russians? Didn’t he help Germany rebuild? Wasn’t Eisenhower a German name?
Sam taught Taylor that the Nazis were everywhere. “You think you’re an American,” Sam had said, “because that’s what your parents raised you to believe. But the other Americans, they think you’re a Jew. And the only people you can trust are other Jews.”
Taylor remembered lying in bed at night, thinking that when he grew up he would organize an army of Jewish storm troopers who would wear Star of David armbands. He imagined them in black leather coats goosestepping down Fifth Avenue, smashing windows and pulling Nazis out of the stores and beating them up. He imagined the whole world cowering in terror before the Star of David.
Now, thought Taylor, his mixed-up adolescent fantasies had come true: there were Jewish storm troopers in the world, Jews who could watch another Jew murdered and do nothing. There were Jews who would murder other Jews. His grandfather had been wrong. There was no one you could trust.
By the time Sarah Kalman called, Taylor was too angry to hear the excitement in her voice.
“But, Dov,” she protested, “it’s all there in the diaries. You don’t know what I had to go through to get it. Please, come to the shop. Hear what I have to tell you. Then decide what you want to do.”
For the first time in months, Taylor pictured himself walking into a bar and ordering a drink. The image shocked him.
Keep busy, he told himself. If you don’t go to see Sarah, what will you do today? Forget today. What will you do in the next thirty minutes?
“All right,” he said, “I’ll be right over.”
Taylor got his gun from his dresser drawer and slipped it into his coat. He checked to see that his answering machine was on, and then he let himself out of his apartment.
Closing the door, he felt someone behind him. He spun around, reaching for his gun.
“No,” said Maria Radziwell. “Don’t shoot.”
Chapter 61 JFK International Airport
New York
Tuesday, October 29
“BENNY, GO CHECK AGAIN,” said Augusta Lerner, poking her husband in the ribs.
“I just checked a minute ago,” said Benjamin Lerner.
“So check again,” Augusta said.
“You’re making me crazy, Gussie.”
“All right. Don’t go. I’ll go.”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll go.”
“Don’t do me no favors, Benny. If it’s so much trouble for you, I’ll go.”
“Oh, for chrissakes,” said Ben Lerner, standing up to check again when Flight 1418—carrying Gussie’s son Saul, his wife, and their kids—was due to arrive. The last five times he had checked, the plane had been on time, just as it had been on time when he had phoned the airport from their apartment in Brooklyn, which they had left, by Lerner’s reckoning, at least two hours early—God forbid Gussie’s kid should have to wait two seconds for them to pick him up at the terminal.
“Benny.”
“What?”
“For me, take the cigar out of your mouth. It makes you look like a tout.”
Ben Lerner chomped down on his unlit cigar and glared at his wife. In truth, Gussie was right. In his tan Sansabelt slacks, burgundy polo shirt buttoned at the neck, and black-and-white-checked sport jacket, Ben Lerner did look like a racetrack tout. And he knew it. But why Gussie should keep harping on it was one of the mysteries of their marriage. After all, upon coming to America after the war, Lerner had gravitated to the track, to Belmont, first sweeping out stalls, and later becoming an expert doper. With his needles and drugs, Lerner could make any broken-down old dray horse run like Kelso or, conversely—and more easily—make Kelso run like a candidate for the glue factory. So what should he look like? A college professor?
“For chrissake, Gussie,” said Lerner, “the doctors won’t let me smoke it, the airport guys give me dirty looks when they see it, and now you want to take away one of the last pleasures of my life.”
“Please, Benny. For me.”
Lerner took the chewed cigar out of his mouth and dropped it into his coat pocket. He could never refuse Gus. When he had come to America from Poland, his life utterly obliterated, Gussie had appeared to him like a goddess—a golden American girl, as beautiful as any movie queen. That she would go out with him, a poor greenhorn who spoke broken English, was amazing. That she would marry him—short, stubby, balding Benny with no family and no prospects—was astonishing. Through all her nagging, her bullying, and her complaining, Lerner never stopped feeling grateful, never stopped loving her. And they did all right, he always told himself. His only regret was that she refused to have any more children. He would have liked to start another family, but Gussie had been adamant. Her Saul was to remain unique.
Lerner walked to the desk and looked up at the television screen above it. Flight 1418 had landed.
“Gussie!” he called over his shoulder to his wife. “It’s here.”
Gussie walked over to Lerner, took his arm, and squeezed.
“You excited, Gussie?” he asked.
In response, Gussie reached up and rearranged the few strands of hair left on her husband’s head. Then she fixed her eyes on the gate through which her son would soon emerge, her expression as rapt as a poor immigrant’s upon first seeing the Statue of Liberty.
And there he was. Gussie started jumping up and down, waving. “Solly! Solly! Over here.”
Lerner saw his stepson walking stiffly toward his mother, his little blond wife and their two blond children bringing up the rear. He saw Saul look left and right, hoping that no one was watching, and he turned away in disgust.
The boy was embarrassed by his mother and, Lerner knew, embarrassed by his stepfather. He thinks we’re prost, thought Ben. There was no good English word for it. Prost. Uneducated. Vulgar. That’s what the big shots called him when he was a boy in Poland, and that’s what his stepson thought of him now.
“Hello, Ben,” Saul said dryly, breaking free of his mother’s embrace and extending his hand. Yes, thought Ben, taking it and pumping it once before letting it go, the boy had always been polite to him, always tolerated him, and had always let him know what that tolerance masked.
“So how’s England?” Lerner asked.
“Fine, Ben,” said Saul.
“Yeah? Okay, so let’s go,” Lerner called.
“Wait,” said Gussie. “I have to kiss my beautiful grandchildren. Come, children, come to Grandma.”
People streamed through the gate as Gussie crouched down and opened her arms. Lerner saw Saul’s wife push her reluctant children toward their grandmother. Strangers, he thought. This is no real family.
Saul was still looking around, growing more uncomfortable by the second, eager to get this over with, and Lerner felt the urge to hit him. That’s what the kid always needed, thought Ben. A good smack. Knock some of the snot out of him. Of course, Gussie had never let him raise a hand to her precious one.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lerner saw a man who looked familiar stepping through the gate. Suddenly riveted, he watched the man walk toward him, passing not two feet away. Couldn’t be, thought Ben as he began to follow him, his feet carrying him unthinkingly in the man’s wake.
