The Spy in the Shadows: A Gripping Espionage Novel, page 1
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The Spy in the Shadows
Orna Sandler Klein
Copyright © 2024 Orna Sandler Klein
All rights reserved; no parts of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping,
or by any information retrieval system, without
the permission, in writing, of the author.
Translation from Hebrew: Matthew Berman
Editing: Nancy Alroy
Contact: orsakl2020@gmail.com
Contents
Monday is the First Day of the Week
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Shabbat
Second Week
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Shabbat
Third week
Sunday
Monday
Week Four
Sunday
Epilogue…
Monday is the First Day of the Week
I’m in the avocado grove next to the house a few hours after it rained. The treetops sway in the breeze, and the scent of damp earth fills my nostrils. Leaves cover the muddy ground creating a safe path across. The air is clean. I take a deep breath and look at the sun’s rays poking through the grey-blue sky.
“It’s going to be nice today,” I say to myself.
A loud buzzing sound shakes me out of my dream. Ugh. I open my eyes and the grove grows distant and, with it, the fresh air. I press the button on my alarm clock, fighting the urge to continue sleeping. If only I had known what was going to happen, I would have closed my eyes and gone back to the avocado grove.
Yes, it’s 1997. I have been sent to Paris with my family by the Mossad. I roll out of bed and tip-toe to the tiny bathroom. I have to take a shower, otherwise I can’t start my day. Luckily, the apartment is heated. If not, the temptation to stay wrapped up in the comforter would be even greater – it’s difficult enough as it is. The water quickly washes away the sleep.
The clothes I organized the night before lay waiting for me in the guest bedroom. My work clothes – everything matches in order to make it easier to decide what to wear. Black pants and a black shirt with grey stripes that will never get wrinkled, even if it’s been in a suitcase for a week. As I get dressed, I’m on hold with the taxi service. In the mornings, it takes them forever to answer. I’m always pressed for time and on a tight schedule, while they have all the time in the world.
I packed my suitcase quickly yesterday. I have a well-refined routine – I pack in the shortest time possible, and I don’t forget a thing. I flip the bag over and empty the entirety of its contents, including any hidden pockets, so that I don’t miss even the slightest scrap of paper. Only then do I begin packing.
Work and home are separate – they don’t intermix. The clothes get packed in their typical order: underwear, bras, socks, undershirts, dress shirts, pants, toiletries. How many of each depends on how long I’ll be gone, with options for any unforeseen turn of events. I take a small suitcase on the plane with me to reduce the time I have to wait. This flight was unplanned, but there are always last-minute changes.
I have guilders, Belgian francs and a few French francs in my wallet. I’m leaving Paris and will only be back on the weekend.
I’m still on hold. The phone is playing obnoxiously jovial music. I consider other options that never end up being relevant. There’s no point heading down to the street with a suitcase at this hour – nobody is catching an “errant” cab around here.
Finally, the switchboard answers.
Silently, I go into the girls’ room and gently kiss them goodbye. The older one raises up her hands, hugs me and murmurs, “I love you, Mommy, don’t work too hard… oh, and call at night, okay?” She always remembers to tell me the words I so long to hear.
“I put a letter in your bag, but don’t open it until you get on the train. Okay, Mommy?” says my younger daughter, Shir, with a half-smile, submerged in sleep.
I go back into our bedroom. My husband opens an observant eye. “Sleep, honey, sleep,” I say. Somebody should at least enjoy the warm blanket. I drop a soft kiss onto his cheek and leave.
The French don’t leave the house before nine. Until then, there’s almost no traffic outside.
At exactly seven-o-five, the TGV high-speed train leaves Paris for Brussels. The taxi arrives twenty minutes late and we finally leave for Paris’s northern train station, Gare du Nord. I still don’t think I’ll make it on time. The driver was Asian and drove with a confused expression on his face and a thin smile. I wonder every single time if they actually understand what I’m asking, if they know how to get me where I’m going without getting lost among the city streets.
The taxi meanders through streets devoid of people. The streetsweepers aren’t up yet, the garbage from last night sprawls on the sides of the street and across the sidewalks. The contrast between the cold wind and flying garbage prevents me from beginning the week optimistically. We pass by the old houses of the city. It’s just beautiful. Each home housed a treasure trove of history filled with love, war, wealth and poverty, success and disappointment. The faces, statues and accoutrements on the walls of the homes and sculpted wooden gates showcase the French appreciation for beauty and elegance. Somebody walked on these sidewalks hundreds of years ago, entered into the house we just passed, and had breakfast. It gives me a sense of eternity, power and energy.
A withered, tired old man is lying on the stoop, just up the three steps leading to the entrance of a building. Next to his head is an empty bottle of vodka. He is in a drunken slumber in a corner he managed to carve out for himself. The poverty next to the luxury, the splendor emphasizing the sense of injustice. In a little while, he will be driven off by one of the early risers, a man in an elegant striped suit holding an expensive briefcase. He will nudge him carefully with the edge of his shined shoe, and the decrepit man will wake up, startled, blinking his eyes, unable to focus in the morning light. He will get up, head bowed, and move himself to the stoop of the next building over. But perhaps the man who just now exited the building will show compassion to the destitute man, carefully step over his drunken body, and go about his way.
On the street corner, the boulangerie was already open, the breads neatly stacked on the shelves while crispy, fresh croissants lay on large trays at the counter. I can smell and almost taste them from the cab. On the other corner, the neighborhood cafe is in the same place it has been for ages. The smell of last night’s cigarettes is still in the air, befouling the fresh fragrances streaming out of the of the bakery.
The cab glides over the streets in the 17th arrondissement, and I take in the sights and sounds. It’s incredible how much a place, a home or scent can fill one with energy, memories and love. Leaving the city makes me sad every time.
It’s six fifty-five. I burst into the train station. Statues adorn the ancient building from the outside, while inside is a giant, bustling terminal with long lines of people waiting to buy tickets. I won’t make my train on time. I can buy a ticket on the train, but then I might not have a place to sit. It’s illegal to stand on the trains, and I have to obey the law. There’s a trick I learned after traveling a bit, a trick that only an Israeli would dare try. In the first-class car, where smoking is prohibited, is seat number 21, which is designated for passengers in a wheelchair. In most cases, that seat remains empty, especially early in the morning. I look at the passengers in line. I don’t see any wheelchairs; it’s all clear. I go sit in seat number 21, my blue Samsonite suitcase next to me like my bodyguard, my best friend. It’s funny how one can become attached to an item, but this suitcase has been with me day and night for the last few years, following me around like a loyal dog. I neatly fold my long coat and place it on top of my suitcase. I made it. I calm my breathing and look around. Early in the morning, most of the passengers are men in grey suits with briefcases carrying cell phones and laptops. A civilian army all dressed the same. They aren’t looking around, their heads are buried in their screens. The work day has begun.
As always, there is an aging American couple in the car, loud and confused, not sure if they’re getting on the right train or whether they’re sitting in the right seats. They will address everybody around them in order to calm themselves down. The locals will raise a haughty glance and derisively answer them in curt French with a bit of English. The train leaves the station slowly, passing dirty, painted walls of ancient buildings that have seen better days. After about ten minutes, we leave Paris behind and everything is green pastures, as far as the eye can see.
An elderly train attendant comes by with my favorite refreshment cart. I get a fruit salad on a tiny platter, a croissant and a roll, butter, jam, and cake for dessert. Perfect for me. “Bon jour, Madame,” he says, “what would you like to drink this morning?”
“Thé au lait, s’il vous plaît, Monsieur,” I reply with a French accent. He has no idea that this sentence is practically all I know how to say in French. “Merci, Monsieur,” I say, taking the tea and turning my head to look out the window so that he knows that our conversation has ended.
I
Wait, Shir wrote me a letter. I quickly rifle through my bag. How could I forget? I find her envelope plastered with smiley stickers, hearts and drawings. I start reading, recognizing my daughter’s round handwriting:
Dear Mom,
I didn’t finish telling you everything. You came home very tired, grouchy and, as usual, with a headache. I have a recital on Wednesday at school, and I’m sure you won’t be back in time. I’m tired of your work – it’s always more important than anything else. Your bosses are mean, and what do you even do there anyway? I don’t understand – why are they more important than we are? I miss you all the time and I’m sorry that I complain because I know that you don’t feel so well, and it’s no fun for you to be away from us, but that’s your choice, not mine.
All the parents always show up and Dad tries, but it’s not the same. I need to talk to you about girl stuff, and Lior doesn’t know everything. You promised me that we would go shopping, just the two of us and, as usual, we didn’t. It’s not fair, I’m sick of it – I can never do anything with you. It’s impossible to plan anything. Even when you’re home, you aren’t really home. Don’t think I don’t love you anymore because I do, a lot, but…
I hope you come back soon this time and that the next visit will be better than the last one, and that this time you’ll feel good and you’ll be in a good mood and want to do things.
Kisses, don’t work too hard, Mom, and don’t let your bosses annoy you.
Love you… byyyyyyyyye
Shir
I feel a lump in my throat, hot and cold at the same time. If only I could smother her with kisses right now, hug her, protect her and draw strength from her. My family is more important to me than anything, so how did I end up in a situation where I abandon them every week, where I am away from them more often than not?
Shir was born on a rainy winter day. The expected delivery date came and went. For ten days I suffered, not only because of my gigantic stomach, but also because I had a baby who was less than a year-and-a-half old running around at home. The prolonged wait was indicative of a stubborn, opinionated baby.
It’s my thirtieth birthday, and I wake up and get out of bed, each step heavy and awkward. The fetus is rolling around inside me, each movement turning my stomach around and around. Here is the head, there are the feet. The feeling of bringing another life into the world – there’s no greater joy, yet here I am suffering.
“Enough already,” I say to myself in frustration. “This was supposed to be behind me already.”
Nathan, my husband, tries to calm me down. “Patience. Know that it will eventually come out,” he said, stroking my protruding abdomen.
Wonderful – patience. I wonder what he would say if he had to walk around like this for a month, let alone nine. What do they know anyway? If we had to rely on men to give birth, the human race would have gone extinct long ago.
“Don’t preach to me, my patience is up. It’s hard for me to even breathe, let alone walk, and my back hurts so much, it’s threatening to stick me in the ground.”
At dawn, at exactly twenty minutes to five to be precise, I wake up with a sharp pain in my stomach. I try to walk to the bathroom and think to myself that I overdid it again with the birthday cake yesterday, and realize that the baby is finally ready. “Nathan, get up,” I say, jabbing him in the side with my elbow. “It’s time, we have to go.”
Less than an hour later, Shir made her debut. The whole way, I experienced contractions – the little one who preferred to stay inside me until the last moment was now pushing with all her might to get out. I was doubled over in pain and barely able to get out of the car. Five minutes after entering the maternity ward, she was already screaming her lungs out. Pudgy and smooth, her cheeks bright red from the effort. Even then she knew how to scream.
I didn’t have the energy to look at her. I had no will to talk or smile. The wait was over, yet I didn’t feel any relief. Instead, I became increasingly despondent. I have two daughters, the older one not yet a year and a half. How can I distribute my love between them? Are we talking about a whole number that needs to be divided, or does each one get her own slice of love that isn’t dependent on the other?
The nurse laid the little girl in my arms and I looked at her, hugged her, yet felt nothing. I was trying to figure out whether I wanted to cry or sleep. Lior, despite being older, was herself still a baby and the love of my life. From the moment she was born, I didn’t think I could love anything else as much as I loved her. Two days after the birth, she arrived with Nathan to visit me, sat down on my bed, round and smiling, indulgently demanding the attention she was used to receiving from me. She crawled over to me; I was in agony. I felt overwhelming fatigue intertwined with pangs of guilt. What have I done? Am I allowed to admit to myself that the new little one just doesn’t “do it” for me? I try picking her up in order to recreate that happy feeling I had after my first pregnancy, but I hit a cold front.
I nurse her, change her, talk to her, sing to her but, in my heart, I say, Please don’t let her feel it, don’t let her read my thoughts. I am doing everything I can to make up for the fact that I didn’t fall in love with her at second sight, let alone first. Shir will breastfeed for eight long months. As if to infuriate me, she refused to drink from a bottle. At night, she would only fall asleep if I nursed her while holding her in my arms. Her total dependency on me made me bitter, tired, and depressed. I felt as if she was sucking the life out of me. Looking back, it seems to me as if Shir said to herself, “I’ll teach her to love me like she’s never loved anybody else.”
Suddenly, without warning, I found myself looking and marveling with excitement at this sweet baby girl looking back at me. My heart beat like a raging river. I was able to look at both my girls with peace, and without a trace of frustration or guilt. So much love…
By the end, I understood that I was suffering from post-partum depression, which hit me during the last months of the pregnancy. A lack of energy, forlornness, no desire to communicate with the outside world, disconnecting from the things that were important to me before…
Hormones wrought havoc on my body and soul, but I eventually overcame them. I came out stronger. After months of struggle and understanding that it is easy to fall into the depths of despair, I looked despair in the eye and said, “No more.” It’s time to break free, to smile, to love, to enjoy – in short, to live.
“Would you like another tea, Madame?” asked the aging steward amicably, unaware that he jarred me back to reality from distant memories.
“Oui, merci, Monsieur,” I answered politely.
I hand him the plastic cup so he can fill it with more “tea” – the French don’t quite understand this English beverage. However, the dull drink slides down my throat, warming it. I look out the window at the grassy plain. We fly at lightning speed past small lakes and rustic villages with old stone houses and ancient churches in their centers. The train glides along at over 180 miles per hour, the picturesque landscape constantly changing at a dizzying pace.
For the three years that we lived in the United States for my husband’s work, I featured prominently, a feeling that was foreign to me. I greatly missed my place of work, friends, and the job. The pride of belonging to the security establishment and satisfaction from the job disappeared once the people around me had no idea where I worked – in those days, everything was top secret.
“What do you do?” was a question that everybody asked me.
“I work for the Ministry of Defense.”
“Ah, like, top secret and stuff?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s much more boring than you think.” Constantly downplaying the significance of my position – to be considered grey, small and boring.
