David Bezmozgis - The Betrayers

— You will have some tea? she inquired. Or coffee?

— It’s very hospitable of you, Kotler said, but perhaps unwise. Your husband doesn’t want us here and we’ve no interest in imposing ourselves.

Svetlana strode to the table and dismissed Kotler’s reservations with a wave of her hand. She put the kettle down.

— My husband does not alone decide. Please sit. There will be plenty of time to leave. Besides, where would you go now? It is not even seven o’clock. Where would you find a room at this hour? And without even so much as a bite to eat? I would not allow it.

— We are perfectly capable of fending for ourselves, Leora said.

— Who says you are not? But you are in our house. You are our guests. By Divine Providence, if what you say is true. Never mind my husband. I have my own convictions, Christian convictions, if I can say such a thing in front of you.

— Why not? Kotler said. We are not offended by Christian convictions. Particularly if they lead to nothing worse than a cup of coffee.

— Good, then, Svetlana said. You’ll sit.

She went to a cupboard, opened its door, and retrieved a jar of instant coffee. As she did so, Kotler lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs. He looked to Leora to follow suit, but she held her ground with a tired obstinacy. Passive resistance. Fine, but for what sake? Kotler wordlessly inquired. Just so. For no sake, came Leora’s wordless reply.

Holding the jar of coffee in her hand, Svetlana observed the two of them.

— You won’t sit? she asked Leora, in a tone both anxious and reproachful.

— She is registering her disapproval, Kotler said.

— Of what does she disapprove?

— Of remaining here.

— Of coming here in the first place, Leora calmly corrected.

— But if fate brought you here, how can you disapprove? Svetlana said.

— It turns out, very easily.

— But what is the point of disapproving? If it is fate, your disapproval will not change it. Standing instead of sitting in my kitchen will not change it. Even walking out the door will not change it. A tree will fall across your path. Because if fate has ordained to bring you here, it will conspire to keep you here. I am older than you. I have lived a life. What I say I say from experience. One needs time on this earth to understand fate.

Svetlana turned to Kotler and asked: Is it not so?

— I would say that one walks hand in hand with fate. Fate pulls in one direction, you pull in the other. You follow fate; fate follows you. And it is not always possible to say who is leading whom.

— But you say fate led you here.

— Fate led; I followed. I chose to follow. At first innocently, obliviously. But once I recognized where fate was leading me, no longer obliviously. Then I chose with full and deliberate knowledge. Leora would have preferred if I had chosen differently.

Svetlana went to the table and placed the coffee jar beside the kettle. She looked again at Leora.

— Will you also take coffee? Because if you will, I would ask that you sit. Even if you won’t take coffee, I would ask that you sit. I find your standing very disconcerting. It grates on my nerves. It is like having a policeman or an undertaker in the house.

Leora inhaled dramatically and, with slow leisurely strides, crossed the room and took a seat opposite Kotler. She looked up at Svetlana and made a little theatrical gesture with her hands. A gesture of There, I have complied.

— Will you take coffee? Svetlana asked her.

— After all that, how could I not?

Svetlana poured the hot water into three teacups. Then came the ceremony with the teaspoons and the stirring and mixing. She passed Kotler and Leora each a cup and took her seat between them. They all observed a brief, tactical lull while they sipped their drinks.

— If I may, Kotler offered, you mentioned your Christian convictions. I’m interested to know what you meant.

— I believe in God’s grace. I believe that He hears our prayers.

— Which would make us the answer to those prayers?

— How would you explain your arrival here?

— May I ask what you prayed for?

— Like everyone else, Svetlana said, I prayed for His mercy. I prayed for Him to ease the burden of our suffering.

— If that’s the case, it would seem He sent you the most unlikely emissaries.

— Isn’t that how we recognize His hand?

— And how do you know it is your prayer He is answering?

— Who else’s? Yours? Hers?

— Certainly not mine, Leora said.

— Yours, then? Svetlana inquired. Are you a believer?

— Not like that, Kotler said. It’s many years since I prayed. But who knows how long it takes a prayer to reach God’s ears? And how long for Him to respond? When I was in prison, I asked Him to grant me the satisfaction of facing my tormentors as a free man. That was a long time ago. But perhaps a prayer is like a radio signal, flying through space until it finds its mark. And the answer arrives not when you want it but when it suits God, when you have long since stopped waiting for it.

— Well, what is to say He hasn’t answered both our prayers?

— I think that would be quite a feat, even for God.

The trill of Kotler’s cell phone sounded. He fished the device out of his pocket and inspected the name on the screen.

— It’s my son, Kotler said. Excuse me.

He rose from the table and took two steps before he brought the phone to his ear. He spoke his son’s name and heard his voice in reply. In the background, he heard also the grinding sounds of heavy machinery, the rumble of diesel engines, and the clatter of a half-track.

— One moment, Benzka, Kotler said. Let me just—

He went into his and Leora’s room and closed the door. He gravitated to the window and looked out at the familiarly uneventful yard. So unlike the scene he pictured surrounding his young son. The word young interposed itself. They had tasked young men — somber children with long limbs and smooth cheeks — to undertake this ugly job. To smash the work of their brothers and expel the brothers too. To do it and continue to believe that, afterward, they could still be brothers. And to trust that this served the greater good. A good for all: the enforcer and the resister, and the nation of onlookers who sat wringing their hands in front of their televisions. Vey iz mir, as his father would have said. Where were they headed?

— I was going to call you, Kotler said. I was waiting until seven.

— They are moving us now. A few of the guys are still davening shacharit. But they can only drag it out for so long before the commanders say, Enough.

— A busy day for God. So many prayers to answer.

— Not so many, Benzion said. Not enough.

— How are you, Benzka? Kotler asked with fatherly inflection.

— Don’t say it like that, Benzion said. That isn’t why I called. I don’t want to talk about that.

Benzion’s voice faltered and Kotler felt the same impulse he had had when his son was small and someone had caused him pain. The innate desire to console. But his son was no longer small and didn’t want to be consoled. Besides, this time Kotler was the one who had caused him pain. So what use was his sympathy?

— I talked with Rabbi Gedalia and I talked with some of the guys, Benzion proceeded. We don’t want to do it.

— I understand, Benzion. It’s a terrible thing that is being asked of you boys. I wish with all my heart that it hadn’t come to this. But are you calling to inform me of your decision or to ask my opinion?

— Tell me why I should do it.

— I have no inspired answer to this. You’re a soldier in our nation’s army. The answer I’ll give will be the same as the one you get from your commanders and the minister of defense. However much I disagree with him about this operation, I don’t disagree that a soldier’s job is to obey orders.