The Purpose
By Stephen Abraham
Published by Stephen Abraham at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Stephen Abraham
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to a real life person of any character portrayed herein is purely coincidental.
Note : Formatting :
Every attempt has been made to approximate the orginal formatting. Please send formatting queries to tpokaj@gmail.com
For Cathy
Give up your aspirations of love . . . it’s like chasing your wispy dreams in the light. – The whisper
Prologue
Mossad Headquarters, Tel Aviv. Tuesday, 11 April 1995
Raphael Epitan stood with his back to the wall in the darkened room. The pointer in his hand was aimed at the bright image of Algimantas Lutikis, cast by the overhead projector. Ravi sat in front with Eytan and Danny; they were staring intently at the image facing them. Fresh out of Special Forces training, the young men were the elite of the Israeli Defence Force. Their sinister skills were concealed in their wiry limbs – packaged in the façade of fun-loving students, but tuned for killing. They were more than ready.
Raphael was a squat man. He chewed gum all day. In spy circles, he was a rock star. He had led the team that, in 1960, had captured Adolf Eichmann in Buenos Aires from under the noses of the Nazi sympathisers. It was his task to give the Avengers their final briefing before the mission green light. Avenger missions were not glamorous; they were simply missions to terminate the perpetrators of anti-Semitic crimes. After WWII, Avengers sought out and killed hundreds of Nazis. And, after the events of the Munich Olympics when the terrorist group Black September murdered Israeli participants, Israel sent an Avenger squad to exact justice. It had been a while since an Avenger squad had assembled. It was 1995.
“Gentlemen, the man you see is Algimantas Lutikis,” said Raphael between chews. “He was a Lithuanian recruited by the Nazi, Martin Weiss, in Vilnius in 1941. He was responsible for the murder of countless Jews during the war.” Raphael clicked the pointer. “Here is a picture from the war . . . he has a scar over his right eye . . . there . . . apparently from the buckle of his father’s belt.” He zoomed in on another slide – a full body picture. “And he has a bullet wound . . . here.” Raphael pointed to the right arm. “And that’s it,” he said, biting his top lip.
The three men sat silently making notes. “Is that all we have on this guy?” asked Ravi. “A scar over his right eye and a bullet wound on his right arm. That’s it? No SS tattoos, no markings?”
“He wasn’t SS, he is Lithuanian and I’m afraid that’s it,” said Raphael. “But we know where he works. Here he is, caught in a photograph, quite by chance, by an Israeli tourist whose grandfather was a survivor, and who recognized the unmistakable scar over his right eye.” Raphael pressed the pointer: a young couple appeared embracing; in the foreground – Algimantas Lutikis. “This is what he looks like today.” He clicked again, magnifying a cropped image of Algimantas. His forehead was deeply furrowed, his brown hair now white and very short. His eyes looked hollow, the edges of his mouth turned down. The scar over his right eye had deformed the brow; a piece of skin had grown over the outer edge of the lid.
Ravi stared at the image demeaning the wall. His stomach dropped. He frowned at the face. He recognized it, or at least he thought he did. It was as if the man on the screen had stolen something from him; Ravi wasn’t sure what, but he knew he had to have it back, whatever it was, and nothing was going to stop him.
Raphael clicked the next slide. “This is a map of the Recoleta district in Buenos Aires,” he said. “The cemetery where Eva Peron is buried is here, right near the café where Algimantas works.” He tapped the pointer on the entrance to the cemetery. “It’s a big tourist destination . . . there’s a street bazaar here, sells mainly arts and crafts. And over here . . . this is where he works. It’s a street Café called Café La Biela, on the corner of Quintana Avenue and Junin Street opposite the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar, which is over here.”
Raphael chewed his gum calmly while he watched the young men stare at the screen. “Here . . . you can see he is serving the patrons near this enormous rubber tree.”
Ravi put his hand up, twirling a sharpened pencil. “How long has he been working there?”
“We are not sure. We are not even sure if he still works there.”
“What's the objective?” asked Ravi. “Avenger or Glamour mission?”
“Avenger,” answered Raphael. “It’s not the ’60s any more. We needed Eichmann alive because, well, to send a message to all anti-Semites that Israel can find and reach you wherever you are. This is far simpler, like the Black September missions. Quick, in and out – no one will ever know what happened to Algimantas Lutikis. Thanks to the South Africans and Americans, we have the tools.”
Raphael clicked the pointer. A live satellite image appeared on the wall. “You guys are going to fly in from Cape Town. It’s an eight-hour flight from there to Buenos Aries. You’re tourists on a university holiday. These are your passports." Raphael held up three South African passports and put them back on the table. “You will catch a taxi from the airport to this hotel over here, the Alvear Palace, it’s right near the cemetery. It has just been refurbished so it’s the last place they would look for Mossad agents,” added Raphael.
“Why?” asked Danny.
“Because it’s five-star luxury . . . go easy on the bill.”
“Separate rooms, I hope?” said Eytan.
“Yes, but no girls,” said Raphael. “This isn’t James Bond.”
Danny and Eytan looked at each other and grimaced. They patted Ravi on the back. “No girls,” they mumbled.
“Make no mistake – this is serious,” said Raphael, in a low voice. “If they catch you, our government will deny your existence. You know that. No one will claim you; you will be at their mercy. They will torture you. There will be no trial. You will be taken out and shot the next day in the prison yard.” He paused. “You got that?”
Raphael watched them. They sat silently.
“Good,” he continued, “they are still embarrassed about Eichmann. I know this is the ’90s, but once you’re out there, you're on your own. Don’t forget it.” He wagged his finger at them. “In each of your rooms under your beds you’ll find your kit. Check it first, make sure everything is in working order.”
“So we arrive, we identify him, follow him home and take him out,” said Danny. “Sounds simple.”
“Nothing is simple,” said Raphael. “Plan for the unexpected, and when it happens, you adopt Plan B. You have to force yourself to be patient and improvise, remaining calm. It’s your only chance for survival . . . and then only if you’re lucky.”
Danny and Eytan looked bored. They were young and indestructible, or so they thought.
“Let me tell you boys something,” said Raphael, moving forward. He spoke quietly. “When we were waiting for the 7pm bus carrying Adolf Eichmann in Garibaldi Street, the bus came, but he wasn’t on it. You have no idea how anxious we became. We all silently panicked. Things go wrong – you must be ready for that,” said Raphael. “We had to stay calm for an hour until the next bus came. We were out in the open, six of us and two unreliable cars. You have no idea how conspicuous we thought we looked. The rest is history. But you have to know, I nearly aborted the mission . . . it was close,” he said, looking at Ravi. “You only get one chance . . . ”
Ravi stared at Raphael and nodded, accepting mutual responsibility for the outcome of the mission.
“So, yes, Danny,” he said, still grinding his jaw. “First, positively identify him at the Café, follow him home, and in the small hours of the morning terminate him in his apartment. You have forty-eight hours once you arrive. Make it count boys.” He looked at them, one by one, maintaining eye-contact. “Make it count.”
Buenos Aires
Thursday 13 April 1995
The taxi ride from the airport took Ravi, Danny, and Eytan from vast farms with horses and stables; then the three-lane highway weaved between congested urban scrawl. Buenos Aires appeared through the early morning haze. A flurry of porters fussed over them as they arrived at the stately hotel.
“Wow,” Danny whistled as he got out the car and smiled at Eytan. “Not bad.”
“No girls,” said Ravi, patting Danny on the back. “Get your bags to your rooms and we’ll meet at the reception in twenty minutes.”
It was a short walk past the Café where they hoped to spot Buckle-Eye, a nickname Ravi had given to Lutikis. They ambled around the smallish craft market in the Recoleta plaza, keeping an eye out for him. Vendors sold bracelets, trinkets, hats, leather belts and dog collars, bartering with the tourist crowd that swept through on their way to see Evita Peron’s tomb in the nearby cemetery. It was still mid-morning, the sun already high in the sky. They had exhausted the market, having bought nothing, and there was still no sign of Buckle-Eye.
“Now what?” asked Danny.
“Follow me,” said Ravi, making his way in to the cemetery through the heavy gates.
The Recoleta cemetery approximates a small walled city – a necropolis. Its neat tarred pavements criss-cross the area into squares. Groups of tourists wandered in the city of the dead, past ornate tombs containing the last remains of the wealthy.
“You know, some of these are just rented for the funeral,” said Eytan, pointing to a tomb.
“Beats a pine box,” said Danny. He pointed to a statue of a young lady patting a dog.
“I bet you they terminated the poor creature for the occasion,” said Eytan jokingly. “Read the plaque, Ravi.”
Ravi bobbed his head up and down in front of the Spanish plaque, pretending to read. He turned to Eytan with a nod. “Yup,” he said, “buried with her dog.”
After joining several tour groups and hearing the Evita shpiel a few times in German, Spanish, and English, the midday sun signalled lunch. They made their way to the street Café and sat under the cool shade of the great rubber tree that was in the photograph. They observed, patiently pretending to chat. Tourists parked their packets under their seats and ordered in a cacophony of loud dialects, resorting to hand signals and shouting when needed. But there was no sign of Buckle-Eye.
Then, from inside, an old waiter walked towards them, muttering as he tied his apron around his waist. He wore a hat.
“Buenos dias,” he said, handing out menus.
“Buenos dias,” said Ravi. “You speak English?”
“Si,” said the waiter, holding up his hand and making a small gesture with his thumb and index finger. “A little.”
As Ravi looked into the ice-blue eyes, time seemed to stand still. He had a sense of a dream, a vivid memory of a dark-haired girl and a young man lying on the ground. It felt like a long time ago, a lifetime ago. But in that moment, when those two worlds collided, he felt like he was going to take something away from Buckle-Eye. Something that Buckle-Eye had taken from him. Ravi focused his gaze. He saw the unmistakable deformed brow, almost hidden by the well-placed panama. He didn’t smile or feel any remorse as he thought he might; he held up three fingers and ordered a round of drinks. “Beers, por favor.”
When Buckle-Eye walked off with their order, Ravi spoke. “That’s our guy.”
“Are you sure?” asked Eytan.
“Absolutely.”
Ravi was certain he knew this person, as if they had met before. It was impossible that they had, but the scarred man seemed so familiar; and the feeling that he had stolen something from him was even more heightened, even though he wasn’t sure what it might have been.
The beers arrived. Ravi sat transfixed, his heart thumping. Eytan and Danny acted like tourists, quietly ogling the girls and laughing. It was normal for Ravi to keep to himself. They thought he was just focusing. The ice-cold beers were a welcome relief from the heat. After work, they tailed him home, past a supermarket, then to his apartment, just two blocks from their hotel. They waited on the opposite side of the street, until they saw a figure close the curtains of the top apartment of the seven-storey block.
That night, they ordered room service and finalized their plan. First, they would go to a club, dressed in black t-shirts, jeans, black gym shoes and sports jackets. After midnight, they would make their way to Buckle-Eye’s building, gain access to the roof and drop down on to the tiny balcony. From there Eytan would pick the lock. Ravi would enter first and secure the room. Danny would follow with Eytan and secure the rest of the rooms. They were each equipped with a tranquilliser gun that could administer a benzodiazepine dart, to induce confusion and amnesia if they encountered any innocent bystanders.
The same day
Algimantas Lutikis had woken earlier than usual. He saluted himself in the bathroom mirror. “Heil Hitler,” he said to his reflection, clicking his heals together with his arm raised. As he stood like that, and stared at his dwindling reflection, the realization he had earned none of the riches he was promised by Herr Weiss choked his conscience. His life had disappeared. He had seen what love looked like from afar. He had seen the two lovers, the Americano and the Jew. He wondered what he looked like from afar. An empty shell of a human, he guessed. He had left his own young wife, who was now dead.
He stroked the tape on the corner of photograph flat against the mirror. “Martin,” he said aloud, rubbing the corner of the frayed picture. “My boy, mein kleine kind.” He remembered the last time he had seen his son, always in his blue sailor suit. That was a long time ago. He sighed often, but he never cried.
He dabbed the foam on his cheek with the rabbit-hair brush, the present from Herr Weiss in the forest on that fateful day. Having been in Argentina for almost 50 years, his Spanish was excellent, but he couldn’t hide his Lithuanian seed. He practised speaking while he shaved with the single-blade razor, squinting out the one eye where his father had hit him with a buckle in a drunken tirade. Algimantas hated his tormented lonely life. His only friends were his memories of the past.
“Sieg. Heil.”
Every day, he walked up the street from his apartment in downtown Buenos Aires, and sat on a bench under a tree, near the entrance to the Recoleta cemetery. He liked sitting there, close to death, surrounded by the wall that guarded the dead from the living. Eva Peron was buried nearby. He had witnessed the procession from his window, but his favourite tomb had a life-size sculpture of a young lady and her dog. He thought she had a cheerful smile and looked more alive than he felt. He would sit in front of her, on the bench, and relive the little he wanted to remember of his life. The cemetery was a strange place, a little city of death, with large tombs that housed the remains that once held souls. Here they were connected by tarred streets that didn’t show the worn paths. It comforted him to walk amongst the dead; he sauntered around, smoking his cigarettes in the lifeless place. It was here he felt most alive.
At 7am, he would cross the patch of grass to the café at the corner where he worked. He spent every morning washing plates and dishes until lunch time. Then he would serve the patrons and tourists that visited the café. He wore his apron and looked like any of the other waiters. He would look at his customers with the same smile, but in his mind he could hear his father’s voice: This one is a Jew pig, give him poison. This one has come to kill you – smash his head. Sometimes he would hear his father say, You little baby, why didn’t you hit that Jew girl? At that exact moment he would have a vision in his head of the two lovers embracing and twirling around. He remembered the beauty he saw and the horror in their eyes as his militia ambushed them as planned. He had seen their love – he was jealous of it. He remembered the emptiness that followed in his heart. It was his father’s voice that he obeyed, but his father was dead now – and he had to live with himself. He would see these images while he served the patrons in between saying, “Our cheesecake is delicious,” or, “Would you like milk with that, sir?”
Today was slightly different. The three tourists he ended up serving were not accompanied by his father’s voice. They were young, tanned, very athletic looking with their short cropped hair. Their anti-apartheid t-shirts exposed their lean arms and biceps. One of them ordered beers for all. They sat in the shade of the Olmo Ombu rubber tree, whose roots spread out in a twenty metre radius from the centre, and its branches mushrooming above. Algimantas found it odd that none of them smoked. They laughed and ogled the beautiful women walking past like all young male tourists. They fed the pigeons. Perhaps because he was finally tired of all the torment and denial, or perhaps because he was sorry, he couldn't say for sure, there was no voice in his head saying Jew Pigs or Kill the Jews. There was silence. They were lean with angular features. They were not too loud. The one had a naughty smile, a smile he seemed to remember. He searched the tidy small library in his mind for reference. But he was too tired of it all. The day seemed peaceful. He didn't want to disturb the amity in his head – it was like a blessing.
At sun set, he made his way past the local store to purchase his daily needs. He never bought provisions for more than one day, and never made plans for the next. He walked alone, ate alone, and lay on his bed alone. On his way up the seven flights of stairs to his apartment, a big man stood on the landing of the first floor apartment. A white vest barely covered his sweating paunch. Algimantas walked around the man without looking up or greeting him. He continued up the spiralling flights, one step at a time, to his one-bedroom apartment, where he set about cooking himself a paltry meal, and ate it in front of the television in the dark.
Before he went to bed that night, he re-checked the tripwire he had set up on the balcony door; he re-checked the pin of the old scuffed grenade he kept next to his bed. Before he reached across to switch off the light he re-checked the envelope inside the drawer. It was well worn. It had been years since he had opened it and felt the paper inside. He felt he needed to now. He unfolded it and studied it. He knew every word, every faint scribble, every tear and crease by heart, but he couldn’t understand a word of the foreign language. He read the script:
Keyn makhesh emes libn iz keyn makhesh dayn ekzistents. Keyn makhesh dayn ekzistents iz keyn makhesh dayn emes tsvek.
He had no idea what it meant and was too afraid to find out. It smelled old and musty now. He remembered that day in the forest almost fifty years ago. They were near the farm at the north gate. It was exactly 1pm. They had moved silently without their dogs and knew exactly where to go. He had grabbed the book from the Jew-girl and ripped the page from it. He had thought it was her bible – that it kept a secret.
The ripping sound tore into his memory. It reminded him of her look of horror. But the page only filled him with terror. Worst were the words the Americano had uttered. They haunted him. I curse you in the name of the Angel of Death. It wasn’t just the words that haunted him – it was the way he had said them: slowly, deliberately, with resolve – like he really was the Angel of Death. He had kept the torn page as a reminder of his cruelty. It's torment had slowly warped his mind. He was sorry now. He folded the page back into the envelope and switched off the light, but as usual he never slept. However, tonight the voices were silent. He smiled. He knew it wouldn't be long. He just lay there waiting for the Angel of Death.
Friday, 14 April 1995
Outside, the wind blew trash through the deserted streets. The three men surveyed Buckle-Eye’s apartment block and its perimeter. It was 1am. The fire-escape stairs had been retracted and bolted; they needed Plan B before they were spotted. This was exactly what Raphael had said: nothing is simple, thought Ravi. There was no way in now, except through the front door, and that was controlled by an intercom gate. A police van rolled past. They pretended tourists-like, to be joking with each other.
Improvise. When the van disappeared around the corner, Ravi ran up to the building, jumped on Eytan’s shoulders and grabbed the bottom railing of the balcony of the first storey apartment. He dangled there briefly before pulling himself over onto the balcony. The other two went to hide in the shadows on the far side of the street.
Ravi peered into the darkened apartment. He saw no movement. On his haunches, he picked the balcony door lock. The door opened. The television was on loud. He moved swiftly through the apartment towards the front door. A large, rotund shadow appeared with his back to him. It scratched its head. Ravi stopped in his tracks. He stood motionless; the body odour of the summer sweat on the big man engulfed him. Ravi held his breath. The bulky figure hadn’t heard him; he continued walking up the passage. Ravi stepped backwards slowly. The figure disappeared into the room on the right.
A light came on, illuminating part of the hallway. Ravi spied the front door ahead. He retreated to the room he entered from, and waited for the light to go out. Over the television noise, he made out the clamour of rummaging, then the sound of water being gulped, followed by a loud belch. He didn’t have to wait long before the light went out. The television was loud, but he felt the thuds of the large man . . . more thuds . . . then silence. The man had switched off the television. He heard heavy footsteps, followed by squeaking bedsprings. He counted to sixty, his hand ready on his weapon. The snoring started almost immediately. Satisfied the man was back in bed, he moved swiftly to the front door, carefully undid the latch, and slipped out with a very gentle click.
From the shadows on the opposite side of the street, Danny and Eytan saw Ravi emerge in the brightly lit, fish-bowl vestibule. They watched him secure the foyer before opening the front door. He swivelled around with his silenced Beretta at his side looking for the light. Then darkness fell upon the entrance. The two slipped from the darkness trying to time their dash across the street. The police van rolled around the corner again. Danny grabbed Eytan and pulled him behind a parked car as the beams of light flaked past their heads. They could see the police scanning the area. After the van turned the corner, they darted in.
Without a word, they flew up the first flight of stairs. Standing on the landing was the large occupant of the first floor apartment. In his vest and underwear, arms folded over his gut, he was a bull of a man. Ravi realised from his glare he wasn’t going to move. He raised his pistol at the man’s forehead. He could shoot him, but he was so big, his falling would make too much noise, enough to wake someone. They would not only get caught, but worse, Buckle-Eye would have a reprieve. This was an impossible scenario. Before the bull had time to snort, Ravi whispered in Hebrew, “Dart him Danny.”
Danny aimed his tranquillizer gun, but the man moved down a step. Ravi saw him smile and stopped Eytan.
“Why would you want to dart me?” he asked in perfect Hebrew. His smile grew larger. “I’m Jewish.”
“Ravi, what must I do?” asked Danny, still pointing the gun.
The man answered for them. “Come quick,” he said, sensing they were the good guys.
They followed him into his kitchen. “I’m Jewish,” he repeated, keeping the conversation in Hebrew. “What are you doing here?”
Ravi ignored the question. “Is there anyone else here?”
“I live alone.”
Ravi stared into his eyes for a sign of truth. He wasn’t sure he could trust him the sweaty hulk.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he said. “You’re here for Mr. Lutikis, aren’t you?”
Ravi nodded; this big, unlikely guy was okay. “We need to get on the roof,” he said. “Can you help?”
“Si, ken . . . I mean yes,” said the burly man, suddenly realising the situation he was in was dangerous; he was frightened, but alive.
“You’re in luck,” he said. “I have the keys to the fire escape door and roof.” He fetched them from the kitchen cabinet and handed them to Ravi. “We have had too many break-ins over the past months from the fire-escape ladder, so we changed the-”
Ravi snatched the keys. “Show me your bedroom,” he said calmly.
The man cowered. “Please don’t shoot me.”
Ravi held his pistol to the man’s temple, and motioned to Danny. “Your bedroom. Now.”
The man turned around and walked to the bedroom. “Here,” said the man. He tried to make small talk – endear himself. “Don’t shoot . . . your accent sounds familiar . . . is it South African? I have family there.”
“Get in your bed,” said Ravi.
The man looked at Ravi, pleading for his life.
“In.” Ravi waved his pistol. “Now lie down . . . Lie down.”
“Please don’t kill me,” he said, bending onto the bed beneath his crumpled sheet. “I beg you.” The springs squeaked. Danny pulled the trigger. A dart lodged in the man’s chest, releasing the numbing chemicals directly into his blood stream, instantly surrendering his system to the comfort of amnesia.
“He won’t remember a thing,” said Danny, smiling. “He is so big. Enormous.”
“Get the dart,” said Ravi. “Let’s move.”
Locking the door behind them, it was seconds before they reached the seventh floor. Ravi released the latch on the fire escape, and they moved through the darkness with their torches. Another flight of stairs confronted them at the end of a narrow corridor, which finally led to the roof door. Ravi opened it with the other key. Bent over, the silhouettes dashed across the rooftop to Buckle-Eye’s side of the building. They moved like a single organism. Ravi grabbed the gutter high above the ground. Heights normally bothered him, but he didn’t hesitate. He led them, hanging from the steel pipe, shuffling along, his feet barely touching the railing. One by one they dropped down on to the confined space of the compact balcony. They crouched, out-of-sight, catching their breath while they re-grouped.
With his torch in his mouth, Eytan picked the balcony lock and slid the door open. He looked at Ravi. “Go,” he whispered.
Ravi slipped in and felt a tug at his ankle. His eyes widened to let in more light. Eytan and Danny shimmied inside, but Ravi saw the tripwire too late; it had already released its payload. He heard a dull thud on the floor next to him and saw what looked like the shape of a grenade spinning at his feet. Without hesitation, he dived on it, covering the ordinance with his entire body and hollered in a loud whisper, “Grenade.” Both Danny and Eytan hit the deck. Ravi lay dead-still on the cold steel ball under his stomach. He unconsciously started counting in his mind. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . he closed his eyes and braced himself. I’m going to die.
From the hallway of the small apartment, the slight figure of Buckle-Eye burst in. He switched on the lights and lifted his right arm at the sight of the three men lying on the floor.
“Heil Hitler,” he shouted, stamping his feet together and coming to attention. In his left arm, he raised a pistol. Ravi didn’t move; the cold steel ball burned into his stomach as the adrenaline coursing through his veins sped up his brain function. Everything appeared to him in slow motion. He opened his eyes. Four. He saw Danny slide his foot out as he pivoted and swivelled around. His foot swept across the floor towards Buckle-Eye who was taking aim. Eytan threw his legs into the air, snapped his body up from the ground, and was about to land on his feet. Five. The moment felt suspended for Ravi who was still in slow motion. Danny’s foot connected with Buckle-Eye and sent his feet out from under him. Eytan landed and kicked out his right foot to meet the pistol in the next moment. His foot connected with Buckle-Eye’s hand, sending the weapon flying. Six. Buckle-Eye twisted in mid-air as his body raced to meet the floor. Danny threw himself at him, elbow first, and connected him in the ribs. Buckle-Eye reeled at the splitting pain that raced through his chest as his ribs cracked under the pressure. Seven. Still in slow motion, Ravi witnessed Buckle-Eye cough up spittle and specks of blood. He saw him grimace as his body folded over. Eight. Danny sprang to his feet to retrieve the pistol. From the five second fracas, everyone, except for Ravi, had forgotten that he was still lying on a grenade. Danny and Eytan carried on with their business. Nine. They sat Algimantas on a chair, bound his hands with duct tape and stuffed a cloth in his mouth.
Ravi was at Buckle-Eye’s feet. He looked up at the man’s face and felt like he knew more than he should, like he had met this monster before, but not in a nightmare or bad dream; it was more real than that. His calmness returned. He smiled to himself, remembering Raphael’s words: Nothing is simple. He was alive. The grenade had failed to explode.
“Twenty-one,” said Ravi. Danny offered his hand, but Ravi ignored him and continued with his duty – the shock of what happened seemed to overpower his memory. The moments from lying on the ground to the time he stood up were obliterated. He got to his feet and double-checked the apartment. It was tiny: a bedroom, a kitchen and a lounge big enough for a couch and a television. He made sure the curtains were closed and that all the lights were out except for the lounge.
Ravi was in a numbed world. He stood behind Buckle-Eye, dazed, while Eytan and Danny checked the information matching the physical description they had. He thought it odd that Buckle-Eye had shouted, “Heil Hitler,” giving himself away. That’s what Adolf Eichmann had done – admitted that he was a Nazi. Was he happy to be caught, finally, happy his misery of living looking over his shoulder was over? Was that what Eichmann felt? Underneath it all, they were just human.
“Check right arm. Bullet wound in bicep,”ordered Eytan, in a whispered shout.
The anti-semite sat rigid, gazing into his past. Danny rolled up Buckle-Eye’s right sleeve and lifted his rigid arm like a mannequin. “Check,” said Danny.
“Check for scar over the right eye,” said Eytan, checking the list. Danny stood back, looking at the man. “Scar over the right eye. Check.”
Ravi stared at the man. He removed the gag. The worn man stared back, suddenly fear flickered in his eyes. Ravi noticed the faint shift. His stomach felt hollow. The Lithuanian stared right at him, ignoring everything – gripped. Ravi could see years of torment and dread in his eyes. He had the sensation of having met this man before. It was like déjà vu, a previous dream. He was floating through the air, eyes glowing, arms aloft.
“Americano, you can have it back,” said the Lithuanian, in an old and tired voice. Tired from not sleeping. Tired from looking over his shoulder. Tired of listening to his father’s voice in his mind. Old from age. Tired of waiting for the Angel of Death or some reincarnated form of the Americano’s descendants – if there was such a thing.
“Do you know why we’re here, Mr. Lutikis?” said Ravi in a calming, smooth voice, regaining his composure. The words rolled out of his mouth, infused with kindness and damnation: like an executioner’s voice, but with a gentle quality that transgressed fear, allowing the prisoner space to confront his truth. To adjust to his fate and embrace it.
“Yes, Americano. I know why you are here.”
“I am not Americano,” said Ravi. “Who is Americano?”
“You are Americano,” said the man, staring blankly. ”You can have it back.”
“Have what back?”
“What the hell is he talking about?” asked Danny. “Just shoot him. Let’s go now.”
“Wait,” said Ravi. Have what back? The words echoed in his mind. He stared at the man and smiled. Buckle-Eye recognised the smile. He let out a whimper of sudden terror. He heard his father’s voice: You little baby, why didn’t you smash the girl with the stick. You little baby. You little Jew Lover. He remembered the words that still haunted him: You will never sleep without fear . . . that perfect day in the forest. “Take it back. Take your bible . . . take it back, Americano . . . take it back . . . take it.”
“I’m not Americano,” Ravi shouted. He parked his nose at the tip of Algimantas’s face and stared deeply into his eyes. Inches away. Algimantas remembered his eyes . . . only a breath away from the Jew-girl in the forest. He was gripped.
In a low tone, audible only to Buckle-Eye, Ravi uncharacteristically whispered with an American drawl, “Do you hear me? I’m knocking on your door. Tell me the truth,” his fist gently rapping on Algimantas’s forehead, “Knock, knock, knock – can you hear me?” In the moment just before the sun rises, when a sudden chill fills the air – in that moment – Ravi felt like the Angel of Death on the Passover.
He could see the fear in the old mans eyes, but he wanted terror to reign through his veins. It was Passover – the Angel of Death was near.
Algimantas whispered. “Who are you?”
Ravi whispered into his ear, in what felt to be words from outside his body, words only Algimantas would know, “I am the Angel of Death.” As he said it, he saw the dread in Algimantas’s eyes turn to absolute horror. He never knew why he said that; he had no idea what forced him to say those words, but he said them again. “I am the Angel of Death.”
“But . . . but . . . how can it be?” said Algimantas, “You are dead, I . . . I killed you. You are dead. I killed all the Jews.” He was barely able to breathe. The phrase, Angel of Death, changed him. His vision narrowed and he started to shake, remembering the Americano cursing him in the name of the Angel of Death in the Panerai forest, and now he was here, fifty-three years later. The Angel of Death’s eyes were glowing. “But you are dead. Take it back. Take your bible back, take the page . . . ”
The two men were a whisper apart. Danny and Eytan couldn’t hear them. They thought Ravi was suffering from shock; he looked trance-like. They were becoming impatient. Then Ravi whispered, “I told you – I will dwell in your house. And I will dwell in your son’s house.”
Algimantas Lutikis remembered the fear he had felt when the Americano had warned him all those years ago, the words that had haunted him from that very moment, barely audible, uttered on Americano’s dying breath. I will dwell in your house . . . and I will dwell in your son’s house . . . He let out a whimper and cowered.
“Ravi, he's deranged, just finish him,” said Danny.
“Wait,” said Ravi patiently. “Wait. Speak, old man,” he said, as a distant memory fluttered into his mind, a memory of swinging from a rope, and flying through the air, far through the air, and landing in a river in front of a beautiful girl. He blinked. He saw the colour leave Algimantas’s face.
Eytan put his hand on Ravi’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Do you want me to do it?”
“Just a second,” said Ravi, crouched in front of Buckle-Eye. “What must I take back?” he yelled.
“Easy . . . shh,” said Eytan. “Keep it down. What is wrong with you?”
“It's there . . . there, in the top draw next to the bed, in an envelope. You are Americano. Take it,” he whispered. “You cannot kill me while I have it. It is yours. Take it – then you can . . . please, I beg you – then you can kill me.”
“It could be a trick,” said Ravi, calling out to Eytan who had already darted across to the drawer. He felt underneath for a booby- trap, but there was none. He took the envelope and brought it to Ravi.
Ravi held it up. “Is this what you want me to have? Is this the bible?”
Algimantas nodded. Ravi stood aside and held the envelope, feeling it between his fingers. Before he could ask what it was, Eytan pointed his silenced .22 Beretta at Lutikis, and said, “For crimes against the Jewish people-”
“Wait,” said Ravi holding up his hand. “Just a moment . . .”
Eytan sighed, but obeyed, training his weapon at the clenched face of the Nazi collaborator. The murderer. The man. Algimantas Lutikis. Buckle-Eye.
Ravi held the envelope to his nose and stared. He felt connected to its contents. He had a strange sensation of flying through the air, arms aloft. He opened it and removed the frayed paper. He unfolded it from its worn creases and held the page carefully. He read the words:
Keyn makhesh emes libn iz keyn makhesh dayn ekzistents. Keyn makhesh dayn ekzistents iz keyn makhesh dayn emes tsvek.
“Do you know what it means?” asked Buckle-Eye. “Do you?” His eyes were wider now.“Do you?”
Ravi folded the paper back into the envelope, then looked up at Algimantas and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”
“Can you tell me?” Algimantas asked.
Ravi laughed mirthlessly. He stared at the fear, long-lived, behind the scarred eye – transfixed.
“Tell me,” pleaded Algimantas. “Please, I have to know – what does it say?”
Ravi smirked and shook his head. “No,” he said gently. “It's not for you.” He smiled.
“Please . . . tell me . . . Please, I have to know . . . Please . . . ”
Eytan spoke again. “Ravi?”
This time Ravi nodded. A single dull shot thudded. No echo. When the end comes, it comes quickly. Torment unravelled. Torment silenced.
Ravi looked around him; he saw the grenade still lying at his feet. He picked it up and tossed it up like a baseball and caught it. The steel, cold; the pin missing on the expired ordinance. It was old, very old, from WWI. Eytan glared at him. In that moment Ravi had no desire to be a soldier. He had no desire to be an Angel of Death. He located the missing pin and reinserted it in the grenade. There were scuff marks on the waffle pattern on the steel jacket. He had a good look and tried to rub it clean with his thumb. Looks like a Chai, he thought, chuckling. He set it down on the table under the lamp. And that was the last conscious moment he would dedicate to this ordeal.
Later: Friday, 14 April 1995
The man ran his hand through his blonde hair as he exited the diplomatic passport control area. It had been a long plane journey – almost halfway around the world. He only had a briefcase, which he carried. It was already late in the day; the sun was low. He had a smile on his face. He had waited for this moment for years. He hadn't seen his father since the war – fifty years ago. He was barely three years old then, always in his blue sailor suit. He walked briskly with a skip in his step, not noticing three young men walking in his direction. He bumped into them, causing one to drop an envelope. He bent down to pick it up and held it out, but for some reason, he didn't let it go. He just held it out like a Christmas cracker. The young athletic man tugged at it, confused that the man wouldn’t release it. They shared a stare; only then did the blonde man let it go. He turned his back and walked off toward the exit, his attention diverted to the row of drivers holding placards. One waved at him. He strode over, checked the name and nodded.
He was tall, lean and sun-tanned. He wore a crisp white shirt that he had changed into just before he had landed. He had a thin moustache that he patted each time after fixing his hair. The driver struggled to keep up as they made their way to an awaiting car parked in a demarcated police zone. A uniformed officer opened the door. He got in.
He sat in the back of the car, watching the light fade as they made their way into Buenos Aires. He remembered his mother's bedtime stories of his father that she had told every night. She was passionate about keeping his memory alive. He remembered how he had lain warm in bed, listening, wondering, fantasising, believing. She told him his father was a hero in Vilnius – a war hero, the leader of the Ypatingas Burys. He was the man the SS had trusted. Once while drunk, she had told him about the disfigured eye from a war wound – and his fear of the Angel of Death called Americano who had given him a secret letter. He had never forgotten the look in her eyes when she told him. He remembered her heaving with grief and he felt her loss. The feeling was part of him.
He vowed at her grave, in the driving rain, that he would find his father alive, if it was the last thing he did on this earth. He was a young man then, barely out of school. For twenty years he had returned to her grave on every day that marked her passing and renewed that vow – solemnly, with clenched fists. He was now retired, on sabbatical from the military; he could devote himself to tracking his father. It was easy once people knew he was the son of the great Lithuanian hero, Algimantas Lutikis. He carried political weight. Politicians wanted him to join their parties – they gave him leads and he made connections. His network grew. He gained power. And finally he had traced his father to Buenos Aires. He had so many questions to ask him. After all these years he was mostly curious about the secret letter. Now he was here.
The escort arrived at the modest Recoleta apartment building. He found it strange that there was a police cordon and army personnel outside. An ambulance light spun into a crowd. The man became worried. He scrambled out of the car and into the building. Something was wrong. It was seven flights of stairs to the apartment on the top floor. He rushed up the first flight where a small gathering stood. An enormous man was greeting his guests. His apartment door was open. He could see in – there was food on the table. He noticed the man wore a white shirt, black jacket and black hat. Some of his guests had curly long sideburns. As he passed by, the big man folded his arms and smiled knowingly.
BOOK I:
THEN
One
Voloz and the Gra
Vilnius, Lithuania. Monday, 27 March 1752
The small wooden house, nestled in snow, stood next to the synagogue on the outskirts of Vilnius. Since 1388 Jews had settled there, when Vytautas the Great had invited them to Lithuania to show religious tolerance, but mostly to minimize the moral claims the Teutonic Knights held against the Pagans as they tried to convert them to Christianity. The Panerai shtetl had been home to Jews for 400 years now.
What Elijah ben Shlomo Zalman lacked in height he made up for in intellect. At the tender age of five he had committed the Old Testament to memory and, by the time he was eight, he was studying Astronomy and Euclidian Mathematics. By eleven he had become an authority on the Talmud of Jewish law and ethics. Although they didn’t have a word for it in Yiddish then, he was a savant, and a generous soul.
Elijah had travelled around Poland and Germany, as was the tradition among the spiritual academics at the time, and soon academics from all walks of life submitted their problems. But it was Vilnius his soul called home. The little shtetl was a haven to his mind and his abilities. It was here he had met his wife, and it was here she died tragically in childbirth. It was also here that he busied himself with the search for truth to numb the pain of his heart; it was here that he taught; here that the 33-year-old studied. And it was here he was affectionately known as the Gra.
Today the Gra was out for a walk in the woods with Chaim Volozhin. Little Voloz was teased by the other children. After seeing his torment, Elijah had taken to him. Voloz listened well, but more importantly for The Gra, he asked good questions. The student beamed when he heard his mentor say, “Voloz! That is a good question my boychik! Yener iz a gute onfreg mine yingl.” And since it was rare for the Gra to have good questions to deflect his mind from his heart, he nurtured the little boy from the Panerai shtetl in Vilnius.
Today, under threat of a blizzard, they walked in nature, in “the divine presence,” as the Gra would say. Der Shkhine. Much to Voloz’s displeasure, the outing was undertaken in silence – a meditation.
“To allow truth to filter through, you need quiet in your mind, boychik. Farshteyn?” He wanted Voloz to appreciate that silence was the absence of sound, just like evil was the dearth of good. For him, words of the soul had no opposites.
They stumbled through the forest, in the falling snow, stopping only to eat. The Gra, his golden beard silvered by tiny stalactites, was wrapped warmly in a mink coat and hat. He spoke quietly, directed with passion, his elegant words designed to reach into the psyche. In a combination of utterances, gestures, the meaning of the message would unfold. Voloz strained to hear the sounds as the message departed from his mentor’s lips, landed on the little membrane in his ears, and travelled through his mind into his consciousness, where hopefully the insight would burst into understanding. This was the power of his mentor.
They walked silently through the forest. Even though he was wrapped in layers of wool and cotton and enveloped in a black mink coat, Voloz was freezing. Through the piercing wind, he saw a spotted flycatcher snag an insect mid-flight and heard it sing as it does only in Lithuania. Between the branches of a maple, he heard an early returning cuckoo and saw it pitilessly appropriate another’s nest. A mink darted through the silver birch about to blossom. All through the day he didn’t once hear his mentor utter a sound. So when he looked up to see the storm beat down and heard the words “Oy Gevalt! Loyfn” ring out against the noise of the hail hitting the trees, it was indeed time to run.
They darted from tree to tree, deep into the forest, avoiding the icy stones pelting down. The maple and oak forests provided some cover, but they were running away from Vilnius – in danger of spending the night exposed where many before had succumbed. Through the hail and snow, the Gra could see a light.
“Voloz,” shouted the Gra, pointing towards the glow in the distance, “es iz faran a ontsindn.” They stumbled towards the radiance and came upon a wooden house in a clearing.
Voloz banged on the door with his fists. “Ofn der tir zayt azoy gut,” he shouted.
It opened.
“Sholem aleykhem,” said a friendly face. “Kumen ineveynik gikh der shturem iz vild,” he said, hastily ushering them out of the wild squall.
Back in the shtetl, eighteen men sat in the synagogue and waited for their Rabbi. He was never late. Prayers always started on time. Today was Kaddish for his wife where he would recite the mourner’s prayer. The men had gathered to mark the anniversary of her death, as is the custom. But he was nowhere to be found.
* * *
The tall man beamed with a smile at the prospect of hosting the travellers. He welcomed them in to the warmth of his home. “You are lucky to find my house,” said the excited host. “No one is ever able to discover it. Thanks to God, it would have been a difficult storm to ride out.” He fetched them towels. “Here, my friends. Take these,” he said, handing them over as they thawed themselves at the stove fire.
“Du bist zeyer khaverish,” said the Gra, expressing his gratitude at the host’s hospitality. “It is bitterly cold out there,” he said, shivering. “I’m not sure we would have survived tonight.”
“I don’t think you would have,” said the host.
They sat at the table. The host brought them each a bowl of hot steaming chicken soup and placed a freshly baked loaf of bread in the centre of the table. The Gra was conscious that the meal wasn’t kosher. It had not been prepared according to the strict Jewish dietary laws to which he held. He was acutely aware of the generosity of their host, and the trouble to give up his precious portions of food, so he did not want to offend the host in any manner. He reached for the bread in front of him and held it up to bless. Voloz was momentarily stunned – but a sharp short look and a smile from the Gra helped him to understand. They both looked at the man, whose deep blue eyes seemed to expose the kindness and warmth of a generous soul, and motioned at him to join them. Neither Voloz nor the Gra had ever seen the man before, not in the town or in the forest. They were intrigued, but did not feel they were intruding like uninvited guests; on the contrary, they felt more at home than they ever had under their own roof as the smell of the soup and the bread invaded their senses.
The Gra stood up and held the warm bread for which his cold hands were grateful. He wanted the host to feel their appreciation through the energy of the blessing, so he held the bread above his head and gestured with his eyes closed. He bowed his head. Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, and sang the blessing out loud: Who brings forth bread from the earth. Then he broke it with his hands and in a playful manner tossed each of them a piece, before sitting down, beaming from ear to ear. Amen.
They all smiled and ate the bread and devoured the warm soup. The host, who had eaten before they arrived, watched the reverent Jewish men silently. Acting menschedik, the host retrieved a bottle of wine and three glasses. He poured each a glass and passed them around. “I would like to make a toast to you and your companion,” he said, and with that, he lifted his glass and drank. “In my selfish way, I’m grateful for the company. I’m so happy you got lost.” He raised his glass again. “To getting lost.”
Voloz laughed. “We’re grateful too.”
“Ikh heys Rabbi Elijah,” said the Gra, introducing himself. “And this is my student, Voloz.”
“I am Jurgen,” said the host. “Es frayt mikh dikh tsu kenen,” he said, pleased to make their acquaintance. “So, you’re Jews, is it not your Passover soon?”
“Yes, it is,” said Voloz, finishing his bowl of soup and happy to talk after a day of silence. “Tomorrow night, we read the story of the Exodus.”
“That is my favourite story of the Bible,” said the host. “When Moses led the Israelites from bondage. I read that story many times, and I still don’t see the point of it. He leads them out of Egypt. They become Jews. God doesn’t let Moses into the Promised Land – for tapping a rock an extra time. Ridiculous! Nevertheless, now, here I sit in the middle of a storm, nowhere near the Promised Land, giving shelter to a Rabbi and his companion. So I have to ask myself, ‘What is the purpose of the promised land?’”
The Gra chuckled. “Voloz, you see, this is a good question,” he said, tapping him on the back. “Are you asking me what is the purpose of the Exodus, or are you asking me what our purpose is on this land?” The Gra sensed the host was asking something more profound than a simple Bible story.
The host stared at the Gra. “Rabbi, I live alone with my son, who is out hunting without me as I am too old now. I live most of my life staring at these empty chairs.” A frown appeared on his face. “My world is lonely, so I suppose I’m asking you, what’s our purpose on this land. Do you know what it is, because I don’t?” he asked. “What’s the point of religion and the carnage that follows it, when we’re forced to live alone and die alone? Here we are in the middle of nowhere. What is the purpose?”
The Gra looked up at the host with his penetrating grey eyes. He smiled. That is a fair question, he thought. “Voloz! My boy, you see! Now that is a good question.” The Gra took the wine in his hand and blessed it silently before he drank it. “What is the purpose?” he asked himself, swirling the wine around his mouth. “I will tell you, my friend,” he said, turning to his host, “but the truth is that you have probably stumbled upon the one Rabbi who couldn’t tell you.”
“Just my luck,” said the host, drinking more wine. “Or maybe I have stumbled on the one Rabbi who can.”
The two men looked at each other, staring each other down. Calling the other’s bluff.
“There is no such thing as luck,” said the Gra. “But anyone who knows me will tell you that I have no interest in the spiritual side of my Jewish blood.” He broke off a piece of bread. “I do not dwell on the mystical side of my nature, nor do I profess to know any Kabbalah. It is not my realm. You can ask Voloz.”
“Ye` zayne emes,” Voloz nodded. “It’s true, I have never heard my teacher mention such things.”
The Gra gestured to Voloz. “He will tell you that my interests lie purely in the tangible. However, as I am human, I too have secrets.” He smiled. “Tonight is an interesting night. It is the anniversary of my wife’s passing, and it is the night before the Eve of the Passover. So I will tell you what I have learned.”
“Rabbi,” said Voloz. “Can I have more wine?”