Mishka Ben-David - Forbidden Love in St. Petersburg

Yehiel quickly vacated the living room, the room I used, as well as my parents’ bedroom to which I brought my mother. He housed himself and his wife in the fourth room which was built for the brother or sister that I never had and dispatched his children to the family home in the centre of the country.

My decision to let my mother stay for the Shiva raised eyebrows, but I felt that there was something in what was going on that was kindling her confused consciousness and I wanted her at my side. This was a one-off opportunity to be with her for a whole week.

My mother hardly spoke throughout those seven days but listened dreamily to what friends said, let them hold her hand and kiss her. She sat next to me and I sensed that she was seeking out the warmth of my body or at least a point of contact with it, which I always gladly provided. Madeleine, my father’s carer who’d been at his bedside in the hospital, joined us and devotedly took care of my mother, accompanied her to the toilet which she could never find on her own, and got up with her at night when my mother announced that she wanted to go ‘home’.

Orit visited twice. Once on the day after the funeral, when she arrived with her partner. She planned the visit for a time of day when the house would be full of people from the village. That way I didn’t have to talk to the man at all. Our contact was limited to a handshake. With Orit, there was just a mutual embrace and kisses on both cheeks. I felt nothing, neither towards her nor him. She spent the rest of her time at my mother’s side.

Her second visit was relatively late on the last evening of the Shiva. The baby was in her arms.

I’m really, really, sorry, she said, but my husband–my husband is what she called him–told me he was running late. I knew this was the last day, and I had no one to leave her with.

My mother, who was sitting far into the room, suddenly understood who’d arrived and the shock of that realization could be read on her face. A light that had vanished years before was rekindled in her eyes. Small and nimble, she stood up and rushed towards Orit. My little cutey, she said, offering her hand to the baby and, without asking permission, snatching her from the bewildered Orit. She gently hugged the child to her breast and peppered her head with kisses. My little sweetheart, my little sweetheart, she murmured.

Orit stood there confused and at a loss. The little girl was in no danger but no one could know what was going through my mother’s mind. I gestured to Orit to take the baby from my mother. She gently stretched out her hands but my mother clasped the child to her bosom even more tightly. Then suddenly she turned to me and without saying a word handed the infant into my arms.

Instinctively I took her. I couldn’t remember if or when I’d held a baby in my arms. Certainly not a little doll like her, only a few months old. I handled her tenderly, peering at the round, tranquil face, the tiny nose and the perfect, pinkish, slightly parted, lips. Her enormous round dark eyes opened, looked at me for a long moment, then her face crumpled and a heart-rending bellow erupted from the depths of her throat.

I immediately passed her back to Orit. She held her tightly, rocked her a bit, until the child settled down.

I don’t think bringing her with me was such a good idea, Orit said. I’m sorry. Tearfully, she left.

I couldn’t stay in the room and cope with the pitying looks of the others so I took my mother to the bedroom. I understood that I should go back to the mourners who had, after all, come to see my mother and me. But the pressure I had felt in my chest had returned and I had no reserves of strength left in me. They will excuse me, I thought. I lay next to my mother, on my father’s side of the bed, and closed my eyes.

IWAS WILLING to let you go, said Udi when I returned to the office, but you can’t imagine the chaos here in the week you’ve been away. Actually, come to think of it, in the nearly two weeks since you went to the Gulf.

This was a matter on which I was unable to express a clear-cut view. I knew that I didn’t have the strength for more trips abroad. I wasn’t sufficiently alert nor did I have the energy that such operations required, and I also wasn’t focused enough to sit down at HQ and draw up operational plans. On the other hand, I also didn’t have anywhere else to go.

In short, Udi continued, as far as I’m concerned, you are staying. I also don’t hear you objecting. So let’s get on with it. On your desk are the initial drafts of three operational orders. All I have done is to indicate HQ’s objectives. The rest of the planning is up to you.

I began mapping out three different operations, two in Europe and a third in another ‘soft target area’. Before I’d finished considering these three, more ‘outline’ plans of HQ’s objectives in operations in South America and Africa landed on my desk. But the thoughts of the head of the department responsible for the planning of these missions were roaming between the houses of a small desert village.

Udi called me into his office twice to ask why the preparation of the operational orders was so delayed and whether I was all right. The task was finally completed with the assistance of Levanon, my deputy. Members of the teams had numerous comments to make on the details and the chosen methods of operation and I incorporated most of the changes they asked for.

Udi himself, Levanon and I, were to lead the three operations and our departures were to be staggered.

I was sent to Paris. The government in Jerusalem took a dim view of the contacts the French intelligence services had begun to establish with Hamas. Their protests achieved nothing. According to information we received, Abu Ali Fayyad, one of the leaders of the Ezzedeen al Qassam Brigades, the military wing of Hamas, was due to arrive in Paris from Gaza for talks with the heads of French intelligence. When this became known, the decision was taken to put a violent end to the talks. Although Fayyad had a great deal of blood on his hands, I again had reservations. These were referred to the head of the Mossad for his consideration, and once more rejected. Now, without Orit’s moral compass, I felt that these qualms were nothing but lip service, a procedural pretence that was obvious to everyone; I protest, my objection is dismissed, and I carry out the operation. I also knew that my hesitations did not absolve me from responsibility.

A quick reconnaissance of Orly airport revealed that Fayyad had been received by just one person–apparently an employee of the local intelligence service–who took him in one of the service’s official cars to his hotel.

Our team was small. Splitting the operatives between three different operations meant that the manpower available to me was stretched to the limit. This made it impossible for me to keep Arnon, my number one, unexposed until the operation itself and also forced me to involve him in tailing the target.

The keen-eyed Fayyad noticed that the person walking into the hotel after him was the same individual who had stood by his side while they were both waiting to be picked up at the entrance to the airport. He pointed this out to his host. The Frenchman lost no time, went up to Arnon, presented some sort of official ID, and asked him to identify himself. At first, Arnon expressed his astonishment and indignation, but when the man insisted and threatened to arrest him, he took out an Australian passport, answered a number of questions, and was allowed to go. He just managed to hear the escort saying to his guest ‘At seven then.’

I sent the disappointed Arnon back to Israel and took on his role myself, cursing and vowing that this was the last time I would go abroad. That’s it. I have no patience for such stupidities and no stamina for this kind of mishap. I have no energy, period.