David Bezmozgis - The Betrayers

And the winter trade mission to Helsinki. The tours of the mobile-phone factories and paper mills. Baruch outfitted against the cold in a fashionable coat that she and Dafna had bought for him at the Mamilla shopping mall. People will mistake me for an Austrian ski racer, he’d protested. His existing winter coat dated from 1992, bought at a Kiev market on the occasion of his symbolic return to the former Soviet Union. Maybe acceptable for a Ukrainian transport worker but unfit, Dafna and Leora had pronounced, for the Israeli minister of trade. Seeing him in the coat was a constant reminder to Leora of her afternoon with Dafna, wandering the shops, drinking cappuccinos at the Aroma Café. Like two girlfriends. And in the hotel room, though the coat was stowed in the closet, discreetly out of sight, she nevertheless felt its reproving presence, as though it bore silent witness to what she and Baruch were doing in the bed. Neither of them was rich in experience, but he made her feel the more practiced, the more assured. He wrapped his arms around her chest, pressed his face against her back, and sat still as a statue, as though drawing sustenance. And in the moment of climax, he called out as if in gratitude, as if she had alleviated some ache.

To whom could she confide such things?

To Svetlana, she said, So you think God sent us here for your redemption. To shepherd you into the Holy Land. With Baruch the shepherd and your husband the lamb.

— Do you believe in God? Svetlana asked.

— What does it matter?

— If we are going to speak of God, it matters. I need to know what kind of person I am speaking with. One who believes or one who doesn’t. It isn’t the same conversation. And if you believe, you will know this.

— Then say I believe.

— Then I will repeat myself. I believe in the grace of our Lord. I believe in His justice and mercy. If you say you believe, then I take it you agree. Or what sort of God is there to believe in? A sadist who only metes out suffering?

— He does that too.

— He punishes the sinner according to his sin. But He also forgives. And He rewards the true penitent. Don’t we also believe this? That when we transgress we can seek His forgiveness?

— So your husband has repented and is deserving of forgiveness.

— My husband has repented a hundred times over. For decades he has borne his punishment. But he is not the worst of men. Far from it. Whether you believe it or not. What he did forty years ago, he did with a heavy heart. What he did, he did against his conscience. And he has suffered for it in more ways than I can say.

— Is it still God’s mercy we’re talking about?

— For me, God’s mercy is no longer the question. I know He is merciful. Not just on faith. I know it because I see the evidence of His mercy.

At this, Svetlana fixed her eyes on Leora with a fervent, meaningful conviction. The gaze of a holy communicant.

— That He brought you to us now is a sign of His mercy. That is how I see it, Svetlana said. So it is no longer about His mercy.

— It isn’t? Then whose? Leora asked, incorrectly anticipating the answer.

— Yours, of course.

— Mine? Leora asked. You don’t mean mine specifically?

— Yours. To start.

— How is that? I haven’t been wronged. I have nothing to forgive.

— It is still yours. I see that you hold my husband in contempt. As many people hold him in contempt, though he wronged none of them personally. Of course your forgiveness won’t change those people’s minds. Only one person’s forgiveness can do that. But you are in a position to influence that person.

— There you are mistaken. Nobody is in a position to influence that person. Which is why he is that person.

— However he is, Svetlana said, her expression unbeguiled, he is a man.

At this Leora could not help but smirk.

— According to the latest news, Leora said, and she enjoyed the vexed, befuddled look on Svetlana’s face.

— You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, Leora added.

Uncertain, cautious, fearful, Svetlana didn’t answer.

— What happened between Baruch and me is all over the papers. Do you understand?

Before her, Svetlana leaned away, drew her teacup to her bosom, and straightened her spine to sit fully, rigidly upright, as though tensed against a cruel onslaught.

— So if you believe God sent us to you, you might want to question His timing. We have our own troubles. We came here to escape them. Only, as it turns out, we found new ones. In any case, Baruch’s forgiveness will be of no benefit to your husband now. Right now, Baruch could use this sort of forgiveness himself. Not that he seeks it.

Rather than stiffen further, Svetlana appeared to relax. Her eyes lit with a sly, fervent, self-satisfied gleam.

— Then I wouldn’t be so quick to question God or His timing. What you say gives me no reason to question Him. On the contrary, only to further admire His wisdom. Only He could contrive to bring us together at such a time. When we are all in such need. It is clear as day that everything is according to His will. I am surprised you don’t see it. He brought you here not only for our sake but also for yours. You say that Baruch’s forgiveness will be of no benefit to my husband, but how can you be so sure? If he is fulfilling God’s plan, then it will be to everyone’s benefit. And if it seems improbable, that is further proof that it is ordained. I see by your face that you still don’t believe. You think I am a lunatic. But half the miracle has already happened. You are here. If half the miracle has already happened, it is lunacy to deny the other half.

Almost against her will, Leora’s mind, as if of its own accord, step by step, advanced this hypothetical. Was there truly some advantage to be gained from this scenario?

Baruch Kotler, on the run with his young mistress, stumbles upon the man who betrayed him to the KGB. And forgives him! And then what? A photo of the two of them clasping hands. Followed by the grand redemptive statement. But what was it? This unexpected meeting has reminded me of my priorities: my family and my people. My commitment to my people has never wavered, but I have hurt my family and I will do whatever I can to make amends.

This was the standard script. If she could distance herself from her feelings, she would advise Baruch to deliver these lines. As for if he would do it, that was another matter. In any case, what good would this confession do? Leora tried to continue thinking this way, pragmatically, minding Baruch’s interests, but her pragmatic thoughts pragmatically branched off. Baruch’s interests were one thing, but she had interests of her own. And if their interests diverged, what would happen to her? What place did the world reserve for the discarded mistresses of powerful men? When the unwelcome attention waned and people turned to the next disturbance, where did these women go? Were they allowed to slip into a quiet anonymity — marrying a gentle and understanding man, living in an unremarkable town, doing the grocery shopping with a child riding in the cart? But what if they wanted something more, to wield some of the power that had attracted them? How stubbornly did the world conspire against them?

— Look into your heart, Svetlana said. That’s all I ask. You have the ability to save lives. And what does a person gain from withholding mercy?

At that moment the front door opened and there came the sound of Tankilevich’s heavy steps. They both looked up to see him enter the kitchen, his face dark with disapproval at the sight of Leora.

Kotler stared for long minutes out the window and into the chicken yard. What had once seemed like the right decision, compulsory even, now seemed like utter foolishness. What had made him think that he could go on some romantic holiday when the situation at home was dire and his own son was caught up in it? He’d failed to understand his duty clearly. His duty was to see things through to their conclusion. When the army and the police came to evacuate the settlement, his duty was to be present, holding a placard: Peace Settlement Before Settlement Withdrawal! But he had convinced himself that he needed to leave. That the scandal would overshadow everything. That his presence would prove too distracting. That the helpful, reasonable thing to do was to absent himself. And he’d somehow thought that far away, in Crimea, he would be able to occupy his mind with other thoughts. Now, after speaking to Benzion, he saw his mistake. He had engaged in games. Coming to Yalta had been a game. And staying to confront Tankilevich, to satisfy his curiosity? Also a game. Well, he had played games for one day, and one day was enough. He’d caught a glimpse of Yalta and seen the changes fifty years had wrought. He’d had a day and a night together with Leora, the most he could ask for under the circumstances. If he was to have no more, he would have to accept it. That was the bargain he had struck on the park bench. And as for Tankilevich, what else did Kotler want? He’d seen as much as he needed to see. Enough, in any event, to resolve the central mystery. Was Tankilevich living or dead? Living. How did he live? Like this. Had justice been served? In its way.