Love and Treasure (29 page)

“Did he? Excellent. If the case were to go to court, you’d have the transfer of title to show the judge.”

“That is not how we do in Romania. No paper.”

Amitai shook his head regretfully. “That’s a shame. Now that Romania is part of the EU, any lawsuit would be governed by European laws
and courts. And they would expect to see a legitimate and verified transfer of title. Especially in a case involving the Holocaust.”

That word, uttered for maximum impact, had its desired effect. The stout little man began chewing anxiously on his beard.

“I fear,” Amitai continued, “that a lawsuit in this case might have a very negative outcome. And that is something, I assure you, Mr. Varga, that my firm and I work very hard to avoid.”

He outlined, briefly, the terms of the standard arrangement offered by Shasho & Sons.

“I get ten percent?” Varga said furiously.

“Yes.”

“And the rest? Who get?”

“The legitimate heirs.”

As always, it was less a negotiation than a progression through a Kübler-Rossian series of stages of grief and loss, and throughout Amitai remained patient, unruffled. First there was intransigence (“There is no painting!”), then dismissal (“I give you nothing!”), eventually hate speech (“I know better than to haggle with a Jew”). As Varga grew steadily more angry and insulting, Amitai only grew calmer. The Romanian demanded that Amitai leave his house.

“I call police,” Varga said. “I know mayor! Police do what I say.”

Relieved to have achieved with such relative ease the penultimate stage (anger, immediately preceding resignation and acceptance), Amitai said, “I wonder how much the mayor will like the idea of the EU standing on his neck?”

An expression of anxious doubt crossed Varga’s face. It was time to let him stew.

“With your permission, Mr. Varga, I will call you tomorrow so that we can continue our conversation about the Komlós painting.”

Varga stepped around him to open the door. He held it wide. “You want, you do. But my painting? I give never!”

Amitai gave no hint of his relief, his joy, at the confirmation that indeed Varga had the painting. It was here, in this house. And it was only a matter of time before it was his.

“I’ll just leave my card.” He snapped open his silver card case.

Varga crossed his arms over his chest, making as great a show of refusing the card as Amitai had of proffering it. Amitai placed it on a small occasional table (cheap plywood veneer). He walked out the door, but though Varga was holding it open and clearly wanted Amitai to leave, he
did not step sufficiently aside, and Amitai’s hip brushed against his great belly. Only then did Amitai have to fight to maintain his composure. The sensation of the man’s body against his own caused him to feel a flash of disgust, veined with fury.

The door slammed behind him, and he stood for a moment, shaking. Once he was calm he set off down the street, whistling. He had sunk the hook.

•
24
•

“
HOW COULD YOU JUST
stand there and listen to that? ‘Haggle with a Jew’? Fuck him! He was the one trying to fleece you!”

Natalie drained her shot glass and sputtered and coughed. Amitai handed her a napkin. They were sitting at the bar of their hotel, an American chain so generic that but for the Romanian beer on tap they might have been in a Ramada Inn in Duluth.

She was feeling frustrated because her own expedition, to the main post office, had been a failure. There were no Einhorns to be found in any of the local telephone directories. It did not come as a surprise to either of them, but the utter absence of the name had angered and depressed her.

“It’s a poker game,” Amitai said. “He tries to bluff me, I try to sandbag him.”

“A game? His grandfather most likely murdered Nina’s son, stole their house, their property. This guy is a Jew-hating pig, living in a house he knows is stolen, waking up every morning in a stolen bedroom, cooking his dinner in a stolen kitchen. He and his whole family are criminals.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Amitai found that her outrage made her even more attractive. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm.

She let it linger for an instant, then snatched it away.

“I don’t understand why you’re not angry. Have you completely lost your capacity for outrage?”

He wondered if perhaps all the years of effort he had expended mastering the difficult angles of his profession, bridling his temper, controlling his emotions, had caused those emotions finally to atrophy. As if to prove this very point, without even meaning to, he shrugged.

“I don’t even have definitive proof yet that Varga has the painting. What would you have preferred that I do? Storm inside and search the house?”

Before she could answer, her eyes widened. Amitai turned to follow her gaze out of the bar to the reception desk, where, carrying a suitcase, handing his credit card to the clerk, stood Dror Tamid.

“Christ,” Amitai said. “We have to find another hotel.”

“No. Screw him,” she said. “Hello, Dr. Tamid,” she called out in a saccharine tone. Tamid joined them at the bar, looking innocently pleased to see them. She continued, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were following us.”

In Hebrew, Amitai said to Tamid, “I do know better, and I know you’re following me.”

“You didn’t want to be followed, then you shouldn’t have told the concierge at the Gellért where you were going. You think you’re the only person interested in Vidor Komlós?” Switching to English, Tamid turned to Natalie. “May I join you?” Without waiting for permission, he sat down on a stool beside her. “Bartender! A Coca-Cola.”

When the bartender had handed Tamid the drink, he raised his glass in Amitai’s direction. “To a genuine war hero.” Then he turned to Natalie. “Did you know that your friend was a war hero?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think he’s the type to brag about something like that.”

“Well, he should. He most absolutely should brag. Our friend Amitai won the Medal of Valor.”

Amitai fought and lost a brief battle just to let the error stand. “That is not the case.”

“But it is!”

“I won the Medal of Courage. It’s less.”

“Less what?” Natalie said.

“Just … less.”

Tamid said, “How many people in all of Israel’s history have won the Medal of Courage, Amitai Shasho? One hundred? One hundred and fifty?”

“A little over two hundred.”

Tamid laughed. “See? He knows. ‘A little over two hundred.’ Still very impressive when you consider how many Israelis have served in the defense forces over the past sixty-odd years. Ask him what he did, Natalie.”

Amitai watched her fighting her own battle, struggling with her curiosity, not wanting to oblige Tamid, out of loyalty, he hoped, to him.

“I’m sure he’ll tell me if he wants me to know.”

Tamid nodded, as if this struck him as a reasonable reply.

“Or,” he said, “you can simply look on the Internet. There is a very comprehensive website complete with English translation. It will tell you all about our Israeli war heroes, including Amitai Shasho, and then, after
you have read what he did, you can be as confused as I am. We can wonder together how a man capable of such courage on behalf of his country and his people can then turn his back on them so completely.”

Amitai stood up. He dropped a bill on the table. “That’ll cover your drink, too, Tamid, plus a tip.” He said to Natalie, “He’s a notoriously lousy tipper.”

Amitai went right into the bathroom as soon as they reached their room. He filled the tub as hot as he could bear and sank in until just his head and the knobs of his bent knees were above the surface. He soaked for a while, using his toes to turn on the hot tap as the water cooled. When he got out, his skin was burnished to a ruddy sheen. The towel was thin and small, he could barely close it around his waist, and there was no robe. He dried himself as best he could and came out into the room, naked.

Natalie sat with her laptop open in her lap. As he appeared, she read aloud, “ ‘During Operation Accountability, Lieutenant Amitai Shasho, serving as platoon commander in the Golani Infantry Brigade, took part in fighting against Hezbollah terrorists outside the Lebanese village of Yater. While out on an ambush, Lieutenant Amitai Shasho’s platoon came under mortar and rocket attack, and casualties were sustained. Working under heavy enemy fire, Lieutenant Amitai Shasho organized the evacuation of the platoon, and dragged two wounded soldiers to safety, one of whom survived. During this evacuation, Lieutenant Amitai Shasho sustained serious injuries to his leg and shoulder. With his actions, Lieutenant Amitai Shasho demonstrated resourcefulness, courage, presence of mind, brotherhood of arms, and exemplary dedication to his mission. For this act, he was awarded the Medal of Courage.’ ”

“It’s not true,” he said.

“Really? It didn’t happen?”

“It happened. But …” His voice trailed off.

“But what?”

He shrugged. “They give you the medal to make you proud. To convince you that it was worth it.”

“And it wasn’t?”

He stood, naked, in the middle of the room, and shivered.

“Come here,” she said, patting the bed beside her.

He sat down on the edge.

“Tell me what happened. What’s an ambush?”

“Just, you know. Lying in the dirt. Waiting for terrorists. Or the people they call terrorists. If it’s you who’s in the foreign country, and the people you’re waiting for arguably have more of a right to be there than you do, who’s the terrorist?”

She would not let herself be distracted by questions of whether Israel was justified in its invasion of Lebanon. Instead she said, “You were attacked.”

“Yes, we came under fire.”

It had begun as it always had. They marched to the ambush site, set up their missile launchers and thermal cameras, added bullet feeds to their machine guns, and unrolled the mattresses on which they would lie for the hours of their shift, staring into the night, mining the slop in their treat bags for Gummi bears and soggy wafer cookies, things that could be eaten silently so as not to give away their location. Then the dull thunk of missiles being launched, earthshaking explosions. Mortars and rockets.

“And you saved your men?”

“I ordered a retreat.”

He knew if they stayed they would all be killed, so he led his men through Katyusha fire, blinded by flashes of light so bright they blanched his vision for days. Dust and dirt flew at his face, sealed shut his eyes.

“And you had to carry two of them?”

“I didn’t carry them.”

“But that’s what it says.”

“I helped them walk. It wasn’t a big deal.”

Like inchworms, they’d crept. Or like lovers, he and Lior belly to belly, his leg thrown across Miki’s hips. He’d grab Lior’s vest with both hands, heave him forward a few inches, then reach back with his right arm, and haul Miki up. Miki’s right arm hung useless, but he could scramble with his legs. Lior’s legs, however, were left behind in the hollow created by the mortar blast. They humped along, six inches at a time, for minutes or hours, for Amitai’s whole life.

“One of them died,” she said.

“Yes.”

The blood pumped from Lior’s stumps despite the tourniquets Amitai had tied, and by the time they reached the medics Amitai’s uniform was soaked black from the waist down.

Two medics hovered over Miki, binding his arm and loading him up
on a stretcher. Two more crouched next to Lior and then left him alone while they probed Amitai’s body looking for wounds.

“Are you injured?” one of the medics asked.

“Lior’s injured. His legs were blown off, in case you didn’t notice.”

The medic took a pair of scissors and sliced open the leg of Amitai’s pants, exposing his torn-up thigh, white fat and red flesh and very little brown skin. The medic slammed a pressure bandage across the wound, then did the same to the hole in Amitai’s shoulder. Amitai winced at the pain he was only now aware of. He looked away, to where Lior lay, blood no longer oozing from the tourniquet-tied stumps.

“I’m trying to understand,” Natalie said. “Why does this make you so angry? Because one of your men died?”

“Yes.”

“But you did everything you could. I mean, obviously. Or they wouldn’t have given you a medal.”

He’d forced the medics to take him to the rest of his men, who were collapsed in a pile, hanging on to one another while this one vomited, that one wept. He’d counted them over and over, like a mother duck with her ducklings, rubbing his hand over their heads and down their limbs, making sure they were whole, consoling himself with having at least saved them.

And then his commander, snarling through the radio. He’d been ordered to hold fast, hadn’t he heard? Over the open transmitter, yes, he’d replied, but Hezbollah listened to their transmissions. Everyone knew that anything said over the open transmitter was bullshit. He lay there, on the stretcher, listening to his commander shout that he’d be court-martialed, that his command would be terminated, his soldiers turned over to another, braver officer who wouldn’t retreat when ordered to hold fast, who would let all of them die, if that was the order given by the command.

Would the bond to his country, to the people whom he was supposed to consider his own, have ruptured if it weren’t already frayed? Would he have felt so betrayed had he not grown up on Kibbutz Hakotzer, if he had not sought in the army what had been missing from his childhood, a community in which to belong, a sense of loyalty and identity?

Lying in the filth of the torn-up Lebanese hillside, he had felt it break with a palpable snap. Not his leg, but his heart.

“The medal doesn’t mean anything,” Amitai said. And indeed when
he had been notified that he would not be court-martialed but celebrated, rewarded with a silhouette of swords and olive branches fashioned from dull gray nickel and attached to a red ribbon, he had felt nothing. He was in America by then and had not even bothered to return for the ceremony. His father had accepted it in his place.