He was right about that. When we, and others like us, had conducted our little payback operation in Germany after the war, Europe was in chaos. Millions of people were on the roads, some trying to return to their homes, others fleeing farther away from them. There were millions of guns of every kind just lying around, easy to pick up and use. Police resources were meager or nonexistent. One could easily move about, stalk a target, abduct the target, or infiltrate their home. There were also plenty of killings then. People settling old grievances. And most of those killings went unsolved. Some were hardly investigated to begin with.
Even more significant was the fact that most of us, the vigilantes who decided to exact revenge for the deaths of millions of our people, were in Europe at the time. Some of us were freed prisoners, while others were soldiers in the armies of the Allies. We did not need passports or travel fare. All we needed was to locate a Nazi officer or official, mark him for death, and kill him. Getting away was not a given thing, but it wasn't that difficult, provided you planned things in advance and weren't careless.
Since then, conditions in Europe in general, and Germany in particular, had stabilized. Crime rates were lower, orderly police work was conducted, the veneer of civilization was firmly back in place. You couldn't move around as freely as we had done right after the war. Strangers stood out more, as there were less of them around. Weapons were harder to come by. It was a different environment. Carrying out our form of justice would be much more challenging.
As Israelis, traveling to and inside Germany would be particularly challenging. The passports of the State of Israel were stamped with a notice that they were valid for all countries—other than Germany. And even if we got that exception removed, we would still be Jews in Germany. It was no longer Nazi Germany, but there were still plenty of German Nazis around.
"Who's in the team?" I asked.
"You, me, and Shimon."
Shimon Borovski was a squat man who was a devil of a driver. He could drive anything faster and better than any policeman we were likely to encounter.
I nodded, more to myself than to Yitzhak. Three was a good number. A small team. Nothing grandiose. The right number to do a good job without tripping over each other's feet.
"Who's the backer?" I asked.
"Some rich guy named Feinstein. A doctor of some sort. Wealthy family that came over in the nineteenth century. He's eager to strike a blow. I told him you were the best man for the job. The right man to lead the team."
I glanced at Yitzhak. Not a hint of frivolity was to be found in his expression. He was totally serious now. He gave me a curt nod, as if to say, "Yeah, I know I tell juvenile jokes, but I'm certainly old enough to know that you'd be better at leading this team than I would."
"What did he say?"
"He wants to meet you. Day after tomorrow. Seven o'clock." He gave me an address. "What do you say, Adam? Are you in?"
I thought for a moment. I could feel the old tingle of anticipation, of hunger. It was a different kind of hunger than the one I had experienced earlier today. The hunger for revenge. I recalled how good it had felt to satisfy that hunger, to punish the men who had murdered my family and so many other Jews. But I also remembered how it felt afterward, when I walked the streets of a German city or town, saw all the men and women around me, and knew that there were thousands of other Nazis equally deserving of death, and that I would never get them all, not even if I gave up all hope for a life and did nothing else till I died myself. And I also knew that with each additional killing, the chances of getting caught were getting higher. And just the thought of standing trial in Germany, as a Jew, for killing Nazis filled me with such dread that I knew I had to stop.
"I don't think so, Yitzhak," I said.
He gaped. "What? I was sure you'd be raring to go."
"Well, I'm not."
"Don't tell me you don't want to go. You didn't ask me all those questions if you weren't interested."
I said nothing. He was right. A part of me wanted to go very badly.
Yitzhak smiled again. He might have been childish, but he was no fool.
"I tell you what," he said. "I'll let you sleep on it. If you change your mind and want in, you call me on this number." He scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "You have until the day after tomorrow. I need to let Feinstein know if you're in or out by then."
He got to his feet and looked at me. "Come on," he said. "You know it will be great."
I shook my head ruefully. It was impossible to be angry with him. "I'll think about it and let you know. No promises. All right?"
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "I understand. Now, can I have the gun I lent you back, please?"
I snorted, tossing him the gun.
"Now leave," I said. "It's been a long, strange day, and I need my sleep."
He shrugged theatrically. "All right. All right. No need to shout. I fully understand. Men your age need their sleep." He stopped at the door. His face was serious now. "I hope you say yes, Adam. Our work is not over."
After Yitzhak had gone, I shucked off my clothes, draping them over a chair, and went to the bathroom. I stood under a hot shower spray for fifteen minutes, scrubbing every inch of my skin three times with a hard bar of soap. I brushed my teeth, put on some underwear, and then returned to my bedroom. I drew down the shutters and closed the windows, muffling the noise emanating from my neighbors' apartments and the street below. Kneeling, I retrieved my secret box, which I kept under a false bottom in my closet. It contained a number of artifacts that I had collected after the war, when I went on a short personal journey of retribution in Germany. One of these artifacts was a Luger pistol I kept clean and oiled and loaded at all times. Another was a small family photo. I lay on my bed, one arm propping up my head, the other holding the photo in front of my eyes.
The photo showed the wife and two children of a Nazi officer I had killed after the war. When I found him in his home on the outskirts of Munich, there was no sign of his wife and children. I assumed they were all dead. He was all alone, as I was. The difference between us was that I was the one with all the power, while during the war, he had been the powerful one, and I the weak.
I did not know what compulsion drove me to take that photo with me after I had shot him. I looked at it often. It was the only family photo I had. The only images left of my family were buried in my memory, and retrieving them was often difficult. As I gazed at the photo of the blond German mother and her two children, I wondered how the Nazi officer had felt when he returned home after the war, vanquished and defeated and alone. Did he feel guilty for surviving when his family had all perished? Was he enveloped by a bleak loneliness that threatened to crush his soul and snuff out his will to live? Did he miss them so much that he feared delving into his memory of them would arouse an overwhelming pain?
Did he feel anything like what Yosef Kaplon did? Like what I often did?
Putting the photo on the other side of my bed, I decided that it didn't matter. If he was lonely and remorseful to the point where he longed for death, I did him a favor by killing him. If he wasn't—well, he deserved death just the same.
I thought about what Yitzhak had said. He was right. Our work wasn't over. The problem was that it never would be.
Closing my eyes, I went to sleep.
6
The heat of the morning woke me up early. My sleep had been blessedly dreamless. I sat up in bed and my eyes fell on the photo lying on the sheet next to me. I returned it to the box and put the box back in its hiding place in the closet.