Hostage (22 page)

“A minute later, the king saw him and embraced him. And the entire kingdom celebrated the old beggar’s wisdom.”

“And what’s the moral of this story?” the Italian asked. “Am I supposed to guess it?”

Shaltiel took his time too before answering.

“I think you’ve already guessed it.”

And, at that moment, for the first time, Shaltiel began to feel a glimmer of hope.

Shaltiel’s father was right. The powerful world of Jewish history also manifests itself on the individual level. Yes, Pavel had an uncle at the Kremlin. Yes, his uncle worked with Lazar Kaganovich.

Pavel spent several weeks in a detention center in a Moscow suburb. The conditions there were more tolerable than in a GPU prison. All the prisoners were waiting for their cases to be settled. There was tension because the Socialist homeland was at war. The front was moving closer. The Red Army was losing thousands of men every day. Cities were falling with breathtaking speed. The entire country was mobilizing, arming itself. Long-standing political prisoners and new offenders volunteered to fight under the red banner. Officers were freed from the Gulag to fight.

One morning, they came for Pavel. An officer, at his desk, looked through a thick file and checked his identity. The officer gestured to his assistant with a conspiratorial look and, without a word, the latter invited the former prisoner to follow him. Outside, a military car was waiting. They were on the road for three hours, driving through obstacles and barricades, and
going through checkpoints where his escort had to show documents to suspicious inspectors and scrupulous soldiers. Not one word was exchanged in the car. Pavel wondered where he was being taken and for what reason. He didn’t dare ask a question.

On arriving at the Kremlin, the escorting officer remained outside and another officer took over, after submitting Pavel to cross-examination and a thorough frisking. They made their way through corridor after corridor until they stood in front of a huge desk cluttered with newspapers and documents. A civilian with a mustache who sat behind the desk held out his hand and smiled.

“So, my dear relative, here you are,” said Leon Meirovitch. Guessing Pavel spoke no Russian, he greeted him in Yiddish.

“So it’s true?” said Pinhas.

“What?”

“True that I have an uncle in the Kremlin?’

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

“For a Communist like me, it’s …”

“Utopian? Please, sit down.”

Pavel complied. He gazed about: There was a huge portrait of Stalin and a photo of Stalin at a younger age, with Lenin. On the desk, another, smaller picture showed a man in his forties, with broad shoulders, a beaming face and piercing eyes. Who could it be? His uncle guessed his question and answered.

“It’s the man I work for, Lazar Kaganovich. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes. A childhood friend, a Communist Jew like me, told me wonderful things about him. Is he really so close to Stalin?”

“Yes he is. Who is this friend?”

Pavel told him about Zelig and his devotion to the party,
and of all their adventures. That Zelig was being detained. “He’s the person who got me to join the party,” said Pavel.

His cousin smiled. “In that case, I owe him a debt of gratitude. If not for him, I wouldn’t have met you. I’ll look into his situation.”

They talked about relatives and friends. Leon told him the Germans were massacring Jews by the thousands. The tragedy of Babi Yar in Kiev was the most recent slaughter. In several cities and villages they had locked Jews into synagogues and set them on fire. Pavel suspected the Germans were persecuting Jews in the lands they occupied, but such atrocities were far beyond his imagination.

“And what about Davarowsk?” he asked.

“No news for the time being. The city is occupied by the Hungarians. As for you, Pavel, you’re going to stay with me. You’ll live at my house, take Russian courses and work for me. Does that suit you? You should know that our office is part of the security service. So, is it yes?”

“Yes,” said Pavel. “But may I remind you please not to forget my friend Zelig.”

“I’ve made a note of it.” (His intercession would come too late—Zelig died at the front.)

Yesterday a prisoner in the Gulag, today an employee in the Kremlin.

Thanks to his job, Pavel became closer with the Yiddish-speaking Jewish poets and writers Peretz Markish, Dovid Bergelson, Der Nister and Itzik Pfeffer, and even the great actor Solomon Mikhoels. In his position as Kaganovich’s official
representative, he attended all their meetings, parties and lectures. He was introduced to Ilya Ehrenburg, the distinguished Soviet journalist, equally at home in Paris and Moscow. Markish recited his war poems to him, praising the courage of Jews in the face of disaster. Der Nister told him about the renowned Rabbi Nachman of Breslov.

After Germany was defeated, he succeeded in convincing his cousin to invite Lazar Kaganovich to come with them to see the renowned actor Solomon Mikhoels perform at the Moscow State Jewish Theater. When Kaganovich appeared in the special box reserved for the most important Kremlin personalities, a buzz went through the audience. The spectators rose and applauded him as though a great hero were standing before them.

After the performance, a dinner was organized with Mikhoels and the actors. They discussed the news from Palestine, where underground movements were resisting British oppression.

Kaganovich boasted of his friendship with Stalin. It was he who had overseen the building of the bunker for the Little Father of the People during the war; he who had been in charge of the trains that brought food to Leningrad during the siege. Kaganovich said that Stalin personally supported the struggle for a sovereign Jewish state in Palestine, and that Molotov, the foreign minister, was going to make a speech to that effect at the United Nations. It seemed the situation of the Jews in Russia was certainly going to improve.

Lazar Kaganovich, calm, intelligent, a good listener, was friendly with Molotov and his Jewish wife, Pauline (who loved
to express herself in Yiddish), and with Beria, the KGB chief. It was said that Stalin was the only person to tease Kaganovich about his Jewish origins. Others might have wanted to, but they didn’t dare.

The crowd has filled the great synagogue on Arkhipova Street, suddenly too small and narrow to accommodate it. It is Rosh Hashanah. For believers, it is the day when the Judge of peoples examines their behavior and dispenses His approval or disapproval from on high. Whose stature will be elevated and whose will be lowered? Who will live and who will die? Rosh Hashanah is devoted to meditation and prayer, in other words, to everything that belongs to the spiritual in human beings.

But this crowd is not here for that reason. It is here to welcome Jews from a faraway, sun-filled country. For the first and only time, the official representative of the new state of Israel, Mrs. Golda Meirson (changed to Meir), has decided to come to the synagogue with her circle of advisers. She comes not as a practicing Jew, but simply because she is Jewish. She wants to meet her formerly invisible brothers and sisters.

Not far away, Leon Meirovitch steps into Pavel’s office.

“Let’s take a little walk. Get some air. It’s such a beautiful day.”

Pavel nods his head approvingly.

“Today is Rosh Hashanah,” Leon says. “Did you forget?”

“No,” says Pavel, “I didn’t.”

“Before leaving Davarowsk, did you go to synagogue?”

“Yes. With my parents.”

“Even after becoming a Communist?”

“Yes, even then. First, because I didn’t want them to find out. Secondly, I love liturgical songs. I also wanted to be with my people.”

“Well, today I feel that way. Let’s go to the synagogue. After all, that’s also part of our duties: keeping an eye on the minorities.”

Arkhipova Street was deserted. Lit by several suspended candelabras, the synagogue was far from full: several dozen old men, the frail and aged cantor and the rabbi with his white beard, were swaying to the rhythm of the prayers. Pavel and his cousin find seats. Soon all the seats were taken. Pavel asks a young man, “What’s happening?”

“The Israeli diplomats are here. There they are, up there, in the balcony.”

Leon and Pavel hear a commotion outside and go to look. They can’t believe their eyes: the crowd was as large as on May 7 on Red Square. They elbow their way through. It is as if every Jew in the city has decided to take part in an event whose full meaning they do not grasp. But they sense its importance.

Leon and Pavel are stunned. They’ve never witnessed anything like this scene; they had no idea there were so many Jews in Moscow, or that they were so bold in flaunting their Jewishness.

“If God is looking down on us,” says Pavel, “He’s surely proud of his people.”

“Unfortunately, he’s not the only one looking,” Leon replies.

From that day on, Leon is no longer the same man. He seems worried most of the time and closets himself in his office to brood.

One day, Pavel says to him, “Your mood worries me. What is it that so preoccupies you? Is it me? Am I doing my job badly?”

Leon reassures him. It has nothing to do with Pavel. He invites him to dinner, not at home, but in a restaurant; not the one for the privileged officials, but a brasserie that he goes to occasionally.

On the way, he says in a low voice, “You were right about Lazar Kaganovich. He
is
Jewish. Well, he was with Stalin in his dacha in Kuntsevo when Beria delivered his report on the ‘gigantic demonstration’—his expression—the Moscow Jews organized in front of the synagogue. Stalin reacted angrily, accusing the Jews of every conceivable crime—insufficient loyalty to the regime, connections with hostile intelligence services, espionage for Israel, hence America, hence the enemies of the Soviet Union. He ordered Beria to take measures. Kaganovich is too high up in the party hierarchy; he won’t be touched. But I’m vulnerable. And who knows what trouble they could make for us Jews. Beria is capable of anything.”

“What can we do? Couldn’t Kaganovich explain to comrade Stalin …”

“That Jews aren’t spies? That half a million Jews wore the Red Army uniform? That a great number were killed in action? That many were decorated as heroes of the Soviet Union? Stalin knows all this, but he tends to see conspiracies everywhere. Don’t forget, Trotsky and Kamenev and Zinovyev—many other influential party officials were Jewish.”

“Are you worried?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen Kaganovich so preoccupied.”

Little by little, measures are taken against some Jews. There are sudden disappearances and suspects arrested. Solomon Mikhoels
is murdered in Minsk. Then comes the liquidation of the Jewish Antifascist Committee made up of distinguished Jewish personalities from the literary, social and political worlds. More arrests, indictments, deportations and death sentences follow. Jewish clubs, organizations and publications are ordered shut. Jewish printing houses are destroyed. The press begins to carry anti-Semitic propaganda. Jews are beginning to panic, though, of course, they don’t dare show it.

Leon and Pavel are aware of the situation but don’t know how to deal with it. In whom can they confide their pain and anxiety? It seems wiser to wait and see.

One fall afternoon, Leon tells Pavel he is arranging for him to leave Moscow.

“The situation is getting worse. I can’t do anything for myself; they’ll arrest me if I request an assignment abroad. But I can get you out, on a diplomatic visa.”

Pavel is speechless. But he sees Leon is leaving him no choice. The Soviet bureaucracy is disorganized enough for him to have a chance of succeeding. But what will become of Leon? He will certainly pay a price for granting freedom to his subordinate. Does Pavel have the right to expose him to this danger?

Pavel spends several sleepless nights. He has to make a decision. Time was short. Leon tells him several times that the situation is deteriorating. Stalin requires all high-ranking government figures, Jewish or not, to sign a virulent anti-Jewish letter. Most of the Jews obeyed. Not Kaganovich, though he knew his own life was at stake.

“The ax is aiming higher and higher,” says Leon to Pavel. “They now have Kaganovich in their sights. Whatever you decide to do, do it fast.”

• • •

Ahmed, his face bathed in sweat, frothing with rage, shouts at Shaltiel.

“They’re all sons of bitches! Cursed infidels! They refuse to negotiate! For four days and four nights, we’ve done everything to taunt them and frighten them, to show them that we’re capable of anything to defeat them. But those Yid bastards and their American pals, all enemies of Islam, refuse to listen to us. They refuse to negotiate. They’re prepared to let this idiot here die. What will our brothers think of us? That we’re incompetent! Or cowards!”

“Calm down,” Luigi says to him. “The die isn’t cast yet. There’s no sense in getting all worked up. Let’s think this thing through. We still have our hostage. What if we offer to let him go?”

“You’re joking,” said Ahmed, trying to control his rage. “The terrorist has only one choice. He must be strong. He must strike, to set an example for the future.”

“Yes, but so far in this case it’s led nowhere.”

“With these damned infidels, only hatred, brutal force and a gruesome death will make them bend.”

Shaltiel knows he’s the victim of a political negotiation gone bad. His breathing quickens. His heart is racing. It’s the end, he thinks. Ahmed is determined to liquidate him. He can’t take the risk of giving Shaltiel his freedom; he would provide a description that would immediately enable the police experts to sketch his portrait, which would instantly be distributed throughout the world. No, his time is running out.

If it is true that the soul and consciousness, before taking
leave, relive everything that contributed to a life, he would like his memories to be whole, true, authentic. The important thing for him is not to forget anything. The spiderweb up there on the right side of the sooty ceiling, the mosquito crawling on his left arm—these details require clarity.

A Talmudic saying comes to his mind. On the first day of the funeral, the dead person hears an angel who comes to his tomb, knocks and asks his name. Woe to the one who forgets it.