a vital role in that effort. “My assignment here will end soon. I’ll probably be sent back to Europe. This house might be empty or occupied by someone else when your next leave comes around.”
“I’ve never been abroad. Can I visit you?”
There was no way she could see him in Europe. Mossad life didn’t allow for casual visitors. To change the subject, she asked, “Have you received any letters from home?”
“Are you kidding?”
Tanya was surprised. Abraham had clearly said that his wife would write to Lemmy. “Your mother didn’t write to you?”
“She probably forgot about me already.”
“Don’t be stupid!” Tanya immediately regretted her sharp tone. “There’s nothing my daughter could do to make me forget her. Your mother will never-”
“What do you know about Neturay Karta?”
“I know how a mother feels.”
“Not my mother. She feels what my father allows her to feel, which obviously can’t include feelings for a banished son.”
“That’s not what-”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” Lemmy put down his coffee and left the kitchen. She heard him enter the bathroom, and a moment later the water was running in the shower.
E lie Weiss had spent the night at the Pension Naurische, a small hotel run by an elderly couple near Zurich’s train station. When he came downstairs, Frau Naurische handed him a thick envelope addressed to Herr Danzig. Taking his breakfast in the cozy lounge, Elie used a butter knife to open the seal.
One of his agents had collected background information on Armande Hoffgeitz. Technically it was a violation of Israeli law, which limited all overseas clandestine activities to Mossad. But Elie had never considered his operations to be subjected to this or any other law. Only the best interest of the Jewish people counted.
He pulled out a manila folder, which contained approximately twenty black-and-white photographs. In the first photo, a family was seated on the deck of a sailboat, chewing on sausage sandwiches. The parents were pudgy, but the two children seemed athletic. The note on the back of the photo read: Armande, wife Greta, daughter Paula, and son Klaus V.K. Hoffgeitz.
Another photo showed a thin, tall man in a dark suit and a tie standing by a Rolls Royce. The note on the back read: Gunter Schnell, long-time assistant to Herr Hoffgeitz. In the next photo, the family entered a church whose front was adorned with three stained glass windows that seemed familiar. The agent noted that the Hoffgeitz family regularly attended Sunday afternoon mass at the Fraumunster on the Limmat River, which apparently was opened to tourists in the morning hours.
As he walked to church through the streets of Zurich, Elie remembered walking with his father to the synagogue through the muddy roads of the shtetl, both of them in black coats and wide-brimmed hats. At the door of the synagogue, Rabbi Yakov Gerster greeted them with his son, Abraham. The rabbi asked how Elie had been progressing as an apprentice shoykhet, and while Elie’s father bragged about his son’s proficiency with the slaughter of livestock, Abraham scrunched his face in revulsion.
With this memory on his mind, Elie mounted the stone steps of the Fraumunster church and entered the cavernous space, which was braced by multiple cross-arches high above. The three aisles of the gothic basilica were lit by the rays of the sun, filtered through the stained glass windows. Less than a third of the pews were taken. The Hoffgeitz family sat up front. The organ played a thunderous tune, and the parishioners sang a hymn. He sat in the rear, far to the right. It was chilly, the damp air scented with candles. He hesitated before removing his wool cap, but he had no choice.
The pastor, in a black robe, signaled to the organ player, who picked up the pace, bringing it to a roaring climax. The organ was enormous in size, with hundreds, perhaps over a thousand pipes rising to different heights.
“This is a special day,” the pastor began, his German spoken with a French accent. He pointed to the front of the choir room and the stained-glass windows. “Thanks to the generosity of our faithful and the divine gift of the inspired artist, we are blessed with the presence of prophets Elijah, Elisha, and Jeremiah.”
This jolted Elie’s memory. Months earlier he had read in a newspaper article criticizing the elderly Jewish artist Marc Chagall for accepting a lucrative commission to create biblical scenes for a Swiss church, including one of Jesus Christ, in whose name countless Jews had been murdered over the past centuries. Elie shifted in the pew to get a better look.
While Elijah was rising to heaven in a chariot of fire, Jeremiah hovered in a hazy blue cloud. The next stained window showed Moses looking down on the Israelites in the midst of battle. Jacob occupied the next, his ladder reaching for the sky while a seraph wrestled him to the ground. Elie almost laughed at the next scene, which had the walled city of Jerusalem descending from a yellowish sky while King David and Bathsheba looked on amorously.
The pastor, meanwhile, crossed over to the most striking depiction, a greenish-orange creation that starred Mary, Baby Jesus, a floating tree, a lamb, and the crucifixion, with an adult Jesus ascending to divine heights that required Elie to crane his neck to look at the top, near the ceiling, where their Messiah was finally free from his earthly suffering.
The pastor’s sermon went on for a half-hour, extracting lessons of modesty and charity from the lives of Elijah, Elisha, and Jeremiah, concluding with Jesus. Elie watched the Hoffgeitz family, the mother nodding approvingly, the daughter glancing at her watch, and Herr Hoffgeitz’s chin resting on his chest while he napped. The son, who was about twelve, seemed captivated by the colorful biblical scenes.
The service ended with another hymn. Elie put on his wool cap and moved to the shadow of a thick stone column. The Hoffgeitz family lingered to look up at the windows, while the pastor spoke animatedly, gesturing at each of the scenes. He paused when Herr Hoffgeitz spoke and leaned forward in deference.
Elie slipped outside and chose a discreet vantage point. A dark Rolls Royce glided into the plaza. The driver came around to open the door. Gunter.
A rattling engine noise drew everyone’s attention as a yellow VW minibus arrived, stopping behind the Rolls Royce. It was filled with teenagers with longish hair. The daughter jumped in, and only young Klaus waved at the departing VW, which left behind a smell of burnt oil. Across the rear of the minibus, a crudely painted serpent slithered between purple letters LASN, which Elie suspected stood for Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas, the Swiss boarding school once attended by SS General Klaus von Koenig and Armande Hoffgeitz. It appeared that the prestigious boys’ school had become coed.
L emmy tied a towel around his waist and went to the living room. He felt at home among Tanya’s books, the music from the wooden box of the radio, and Bira smiling from her photo on the wall. He found Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and flipped through the pages, finding familiar passages.
When he put down the book, Lemmy noticed a cigarette lighter leaning against an empty ashtray. He picked it up, surprised by its heavy weight. With his thumb he opened the tiny cover and pressed. It worked. He thumbed the cover, extinguishing the flame. He could see the glint of silver under the greenish coat of aging.
Tanya entered the room, carrying two cups. “You didn’t finish your coffee.” She sat on the sofa. “I made you a fresh cup.”
“I’m sorry for ending our conversation so abruptly.”
“Apology accepted.”
“No one can possibly understand Neturay Karta unless you’ve been part of it.” He sat next to her and picked up the cigarette lighter. “Have you started smoking?”
She put down the cup, splashing hot coffee on the table. “Give it to me!”
He held it up, away from her, and pulled out the Mauser with his free hand. The long shining barrel lined up with the oxidized rectangle of the lighter. Both had the same engraved initials. “Who is K. v. K.?”
E lie crossed the Limmat River and headed back to the Pension Naurische. Sunday traffic was sparse. The tram rumbled by, throwing electric sparks from the overhead wires. On Bahnhofstrasse, near the entrance to the central train station, he bought the Sunday edition of the German-language daily Neue Zuricher Zeitung. Farther down, he found a small cafe off the main road and sat at a round table outside, raising his collar against the early evening chill, and lit a cigarette.
The waitress noticed the Lucky Strike pack on the table and asked, “ Amerikaner? ”
