Zachary Lazar: I Pity the Poor Immigrant

He took his sunglasses all the way off and held them folded in his hand. He closed his eyes and said the prayer for the dead, remembering the foreign words from three or four lifetimes ago.

“Before we left Poland, there was a big argument,” he said to no one in particular. “I was nine years old, so I remember. My grandfather wanted to be buried here in Israel — he was already an old man. My father wanted all of us to go to America. He thought there would be opportunity there — the old story. Opportunity. In Grodno, one day the rabbi came across a dead girl in the woods, a Polish girl, she’d been raped and killed. So the rabbi ran back for help and they said it must have been him who killed her. He wanted her blood for the Passover — that’s what they said. They cut him up into pieces while he was still alive. They took the four pieces of his body and they nailed them to the city walls of Grodno. It was a brave thing just to take them down and give him a proper burial. We left in 1911, and my parents and my brother and I went to New York and my grandparents came here. My grandfather wanted to die here, just like I want to die here. Die here as a Jew.”

He gave the rabbi some money and asked him to look after the graves, then they walked back up the hill. It was hot and he took off his jacket. Poland, New York — the places of his life had begun to lose their meaning. Their meaning was subsumed by this landscape, religious and shaming. The light was honey colored and the dirt and the trees looked the same way they had looked five thousand years ago. Uri Dan walked through it all like an insouciant guide, watching his feet on the rocks, a native-born Israeli, a sabra, not just a Jew.

If only he had come here in 1911, instead of going to New York. The barked orders as they boarded the Kursk, the ignorant silence, food sloshing by in wooden buckets. Seasick, he would walk the decks and look at the people sitting there like pack animals in their blankets and rags.

They drove through the Lions’ Gate and walked across the Muslim Quarter to the Western Wall. Paper yarmulkes lay in piles on the card tables. Tufts of weeds grew out of the stones in extravagant bushes. He stood in front of the wall with his sunglasses in his shirt pocket, pressing the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. Beside him a boy in a white shawl bowed in rhythm, a prayer book in his hands. Lansky touched his forehead to the stone. You couldn’t take it all in, what it cost in blood.

United States District Court

FOR THE

Southern District of Florida

United States of America

v.

MEYER LANSKY

To The United States Marshal or any other authorized agent or officer

You are hereby commanded to arrest MEYER LANSKY and bring him forthwith before the United States District Court for the Southern District of Florida in the city of Miami to answer to an Indictment charging him with

Criminal Contempt, in that he refused to appear before the United States Grand Jury in the Southern District of Florida on March 10 and 11, 1971, pursuant to lawful subpoena and court order in violation of Title 18, U.S.C. Section 401

Dated at Miami, Florida

on March 24 th1971

Bail fixed at $200,000 SURETY

When he hadn’t returned, they’d revoked his U.S. passport. Extradite him, was the Department of Justice’s message to Israel. LANSKY, ACCORDING TO DE CARLO, HAS A “PIECE” OF VIRTUALLY EVERY CASINO IN LAS VEGAS DUE TO HIS EARLY ENTRY AS THE “PROTECTION” FOR JEWISH ELEMENT WHO ORGANIZED GAMBLING ELEMENT THERE. HE LISTED FLAMINGO, DESERT INN, STARDUST, SANDS, AND FREMONT AS HOTELS IN WHICH LANSKY HAS INTEREST. The Department of Justice had so much intelligence on him that they no longer knew what was fact and what was myth. Of course it was in his nature that they would never know.

Later, Uri Dan would write that even before he met Lansky he was opposed to those Israeli authorities who wanted to send him back to the U.S. He would write, “On principle I defended his right as a Jew to come and live in the land of his ancestors.” He would go further: “Israelis had been molded by blood, violence, and a struggle for survival and power in the sands of the Middle East.” Lansky had used his connections to help arm the Haganah during Israel’s fight for independence. He and his men had broken up Nazi rallies in Yorkville in the 1930s. “He fascinated me,” Dan wrote. “Meyer Lansky has that type of personality.”

The allure of power, the allure even of its excesses. Of course it is the excesses that account for the allure. Some negative force everywhere present but never seen. The black-and-white photographs of murdered gangsters. Meyer Lansky walking his shih tzu near the beach on Tel Aviv’s Hayarkon Promenade.

He uncapped the Pernod, listening to Gila translate the article from the Hebrew. It was the usual life summary. He tried to listen, displeased even by the facts once they’d been presented in the funhouse mirror of someone else’s language. No serious criminal convictions — was it because he was innocent, or because of his shrewd invisibility? He had spent the last forty years not commenting on these things. He looked Gila in the eye when she got to the murders of Ben Siegel and Albert Anastasia. He sipped his drink and waited for her to start reading again and then he turned away and listened, staring at the wall.

“I liked Dan all right,” he finally said. “The more I talked to him, the more I did. Very smart. Very close with Ariel Sharon. He’s covered Sharon for fifteen years.”

“Sabras,” she said. Her voice was distant, somewhere between a hiss and a sigh. “Big balls like an ox, at least that’s what they think. They spit on people like me. Refugees.”

She was still contemplating the story. It had become more interesting than he was. He stood by the window and looked out at the beach, crowded even at sunset. The coolness of the Pernod on his tongue, the herbal sweetness. He fished for his cigarettes in the pocket of his robe.

“I guess they taught you pretty good English at that DP camp,” he said.

“English. Dressmaking. Lots of things.”

“A real finishing school. Dressmaking.”

“We made dresses and the boys made watches. Useful Jews. We loved the Americans, they were very patient with us. Then we come here and there’s no work, nothing to eat. Lentils, a few cucumbers.”

He exhaled the cigarette and started coughing. Gila folded up the newspaper and laid it on the bed.

“I couldn’t save my friend Ben Siegel,” he said, still facing the window. “He had that kind of temperament — he liked a fight. He thought he could cheat people, even the goddamn Italians, and they would back down. I never backed down, but I always used my head. It’s easy to blow yourself up. It happened to Ben, it happened to a lot of people I worked with in those days. The wheel turned, they lost. Not that they were animals, but they were characters, personalities. I used to take a lot of crap for being quiet. I was quiet. I wasn’t any better than they were, but I was quiet.”

He looked at the newspaper on the bed. In English, the title was Meyer Lansky Breaks His Silence. Some kind of raffish joke, a stereotype from an old movie. FLAMINGO, DESERT INN, STARDUST, SANDS, AND FREMONT. Useful Jews. Everything secret, everything always at risk. Now Ben was long dead, he himself was sixty-nine. If they made him leave, he didn’t know where he’d go.

He walked with his two lawyers through the crowd past the concrete planters full of weeds. The Palace of Justice was in a shabby part of modern Jerusalem near some defunct railroad tracks, the sidewalks hemmed in by dented chain-link fence. Amid the fans and the dark wooden beams, he tried to follow the rhetoric. His Israeli lawyer, Alroy, made an argument in Hebrew, then the State of Israel’s lawyer, Gavriel Bach, made a counterargument in Hebrew. For once, he was not asked to speak. He sat beside his American lawyer, Rosen, and the two of them read along as an interpreter translated on a yellow pad with a ballpoint pen. The five supreme court justices listened to the contradictions. He was the head of the Mafia and had a fortune of three hundred million dollars. He was a retired hotel operator and had practically no money at all. It was theater — the robed judges, the lawyers rising and sitting back down. If he was the kind of outlaw they alleged he was, then the only legitimate response would be silence. Either he was guilty of everything and it couldn’t be proved, or he was guilty of nothing and it couldn’t be proved.