Bound by Debt, page 35
“What are you talking about?”
“The stamp, ‘Bernstein Publishing House’, next to the sentence, ‘Jerusalem in the Holy Land one hundred gates fortified by ten millennia,’ is mine, written and stamped with this hand!” He raises his right hand. “It is my commitment to pay the bearer, I mean the person who presents the text to me, without further investigation. And with all due respect to you my lady, you have no obligation to explain anything.”
He bends down, pulls out a drawer from the bottom of the counter, and brings up a stainless steel box. He places it on the pile of books and pulls out a tiny key from his pocket. Watching him in astonishment, concerned that this might all be one big mistake, I keep silent. One twist of his hand, the mechanism clanks, and the steel box opens.
“These bills were laid in this safe long ago, to be delivered to whoever came for them,” he says formally and extracts a bunch of envelopes bound with a rubber band. “The amount to be conveyed to the bearer of that book is no more and no less than one million dollars. Right now there is only ten thousand in the safe, that’s for a start. Here are ten envelopes each containing one thousand dollars, you can count. Count, my lady, please count,” he insists, shaking his head with satisfaction.
“I don’t understand. Whose money is this?” I break out in goose bumps when I collect the envelopes into my trembling hands.
“It’s yours, ma’am, all yours, and it’s only the beginning. You’ll receive the remaining nine hundred ninety thousand dollars tomorrow. Come back in the evening when there aren’t many people in the store, and you get the balance,” he explains casually.
My fingers contract convulsively as I clasp the envelopes and stuff them into my handbag. I find it difficult to control my excitement and ask, “And what makes me deserve all this treasure?”
“I am the last to know.” He shrugs. “I committed to one thing, as agreed. Anyone who should bring me the Book of Psalms signed by me, will receive the sum,” he answers nonchalantly.
After a brief, skeptical pause I say, “So, tomorrow at five, does that suit you?”
“Later, closer to seven,” he says, a faint smile appears through his beard, and a thin string of saliva stretches between his lips.
“My signature is not worth a penny if you don’t respect agreements. The contract was written with hints that only I and Dorfman understand, strictly as a backup in case, God forbid, one of us dies and someone else executes it, as in this case. My agreement with Dorfman was more than signed in ink; it was signed in the blood of our hearts. A pat on the shoulder, a handshake, or even a look between smiling eyes made us forever committed. That’s the way it is with the believers...we belong to something greater than ourselves, to our Lord almighty, to fate, to the future of our families.”
Across the counter, planted on the floor in front of him, piles of books between us, I try to select the right words to answer, but my tongue clings to my palate. Suddenly some inner voice awakens in me, the very same voice that usually warns me of impending danger, saying: Be careful. The fact that the man is an Orthodox Jew does not mean that his words are true. He too, might be another member of the Jewish mafia. Do not be tempted to believe. Bernstein can hire a murderer to kill you, or even do it himself when you show up tomorrow. I shiver. A fly trapped in the halogen lamp sizzles, and its corpse joins a pile of other dead insects collected at the bottom of the lampshade.
I reach into the depths of my bag. Fingering the envelopes, I contemplate whether I should return them to Bernstein, disappear, and forget that we ever met, or would I miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime? I finally murmur, “Okay, I’ll go now, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Bernstein exits from behind the counter, his arms folded behind his back, and walks me to the door. “Tomorrow at seven, the money will be waiting for you here.”
At sunset the clouds scatter, strips of the last light flicker at the corners of the houses. It’s cold in Jerusalem. I tighten the scarf around my neck and shove my hands in my coat pockets. Walking through narrow alleys in a city wrapped in a secret, the anxiety that was temporarily subdued emerges again, and fear grips my belly. I sense someone following me. Like a forest animal that senses danger, I hurry to the opposite sidewalk and speed up my steps. I walk close to the walls of the houses not daring to look behind me. At the corner, next to Shabbat Square, I gather my courage and turn my head. A flock of cats led by an oversized black tom freeze in place. The black cat at the head of the troop issues a shrill howl, and its eyes meet mine. I breathe with relief and continue on my way.
The gang keeps following me. More cats leap from fences, and the regiment grows to monstrous proportions. Real fear penetrates my body. I lengthen my stride, holding back from breaking into a sprint and running for my life, lest it provoke the suspicion of the passersby. From time to time I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with the fat black leader of the party. His fur stands on end, and his tail shoots straight up. Cold sweat runs down my spine. I consider slipping into one of the courtyards and shutting the gate behind me but decide to run instead.
Rain begins to fall, my breath accelerates, my feet pound on wet concrete. On Jaffa Street I stop and look back. The cats are gone. Were they ever there?
At night, in my hotel bed, I try to collect the recent events into a coherent image. A tumble of thoughts alternating between apprehension and a delightful new feeling of security wobble in my mind. Overwhelmed by the happiness that awaits me, nevertheless something continues to nag at me and disturb my joy. All at once I have a vivid memory of the photograph Ben-Lulu showed me the day the bastards grabbed me off the street. Could it be that the face in the picture was Bernstein’s without a beard? My God, Bernstein could be Avi Inbar. He could be another member of the Jewish mafia.
Cold sweat covers me, and I get out of bed. At a loss, I walk back and forth in the room trying to crack the chain of events. After all, it is inconceivable that I, Iris Maor, who have been struggling all my life, am about to become enriched by a huge sum that I dared not dream of. But I have to be careful; it could be a trap. The thoughts swirl and present the fundamental debate of whether to settle for the amount I have already received or to believe Bernstein-Inbar’s words and visit him tomorrow to collect the full amount.
At first light, following a restless night, my internal arguments are silent, and my course of action is unequivocal. Returning to the bookstore is no longer in question. Like a soldier pressed to complete a mission, I work systematically. I pour myself a cup of coffee, place it on the dressing table, sit before the mirror, and attend to my looks. I apply concealer over the bags that swell under my eyes, draw a black line on each eyelid, brush my hair and gather it into a rubber band, put on warm clothes, comfortable shoes, collect my handbag, and I’m out again.
There are many hours before I’m supposed to meet Bernstein. Wrapped in a winter coat under a wide-brimmed hat, I pace along wet sidewalks without direction, exploring the foreign city. Knowing I have ten thousand dollars in my bag makes me nervous. The bag is heavy, so I grip it with both hands. Passing through streets crowded with cars, alongside Jerusalem’s grand stone buildings, I inhale the cold air and sense the weight of history pressing on the city. I move as if in a trance until I notice a shadowy figure walking close to me. The distance between us gets shorter, the shadow stretches out on the ground. I get the feeling he is examining me.
I hasten my pace, seeking refuge in the restaurant area. The cafes in Emek Refaim street are crowded. Cafe Smadar offers a business meal at a bargain price. I enter and choose a table overlooking the street. Through the window, I recognize a black car parked outside with a man behind the wheel. My heart clenches with angst. Inside at the counter, three men talk loudly over their lunch beer. I glance back at the street just as the man in the black car gets out, slams the car door, and walks into the cafe. He is short, middle-aged, with gray hair and a puffy red face; perhaps he’s already had a few drinks. He moves towards me. His blue eyes look particularly bright with the red blush around them.
“Excuse me, ma’am, is this chair free?” he asks impatiently and points to the chair in front of me.
“No, not really. I’m waiting for someone, sorry.”
“Thank you,” he says angrily and turns away. I watch him approach the counter. He pushes the customers in his way and orders a drink. He does not spare another look in my direction; it seems he has no interest in me at all.
The meal of freshly squeezed orange juice along with the salad and two slices of whole wheat bread contributes to the return of my rational thinking.
Twilight. It is getting close to seven, and I am back in Mea She’arim. Passing through the market, the familiar smells of burned feathers and sewage curl up my nostrils. This time I don’t stop at the stalls. With single-minded vigilance I move towards the neighborhood houses. On the Rebbe of Belzec Street a group of ultra-Orthodox Jews are gathered in their black coats, two of them supporting a frail old man, helping him walk. On the balcony railing of the house opposite the shtiebel hangs a worn carpet, a seven-branched candelabra embroidered on it. Moving forward, surveying the darkening street, I take close looks down the alleys I pass, conclude there is no danger, and proceed. Nothing can stop me now.
The staircase leading to the bookshop is dark. I walk down the stairs. A white light passes through the milky glass door of the store. The door creaks again as I push it open. Bernstein raises his head, his face seems pale.
“The last customer left five minutes ago.” He comes out from behind the counter, moves towards the door, and locks it in two twists of the key. “Nine hundred ninety thousand dollars is ready for you; this will make it a million,” he announces in his polite way. “I needed twenty-four hours to arrange the sum. With us diamond merchants, you know, money is liquid, but it’s not customary to keep such large amounts in the house. Yesterday I went to the bank, and they prepared the money in packages of ten thousand dollars, look.”
He begins to stack packets of bills bundled and sealed in plastic wrap. One by one he counts out ninety-nine packets. I follow his movements in a daze, unable to utter a word.
“You see the letters B-E-P printed on every package?” He looks up at me.
“Yes.”
“Do you understand what they mean?”
“No.”
“The Bureau of Engraving and Printing,” he says in his Yiddish accent, “is the American agency that prints notes. They stack them, put a paper band around them, then shrink-wrap them. The stamp confirms that the notes are new, real, numbered bills. They are arranged by ten thousand dollar in each batch.”
Am I really seeing this? Is this happening to me? My eyes follow his movements as he jams the sealed packages into the open mouth of a large brown paper sack. I watch his long fingers work quickly. A warm sensation floods me. When all the bundles are in the bag, Bernstein grabs the handles, sets the sack at my feet, and heads for the counter. Astounded by momentary paralysis, I continue to watch the religious Jew acting with practiced motions. He draws the steel box from the bottom drawer of the counter and pulls the booklet out of it.
“You’ve never done business, have you?”
I shake my head in embarrassment.
“This booklet” - he waves it at me - “is worth money. Yesterday you left it here for only ten thousand dollars, which I gave you ...” He opens the booklet. “The handwriting in blue ink needs explanation, no? The words ‘Jerusalem in the Holy Land’ are clear, right?”
He looks up at me and I nod.
“‘One hundred gates’ means Mea She’arim in Hebrew. Mea She’arim has a double meaning. It is the neighborhood where the two of us are standing now. and also means ‘one hundred dollars.’ ‘Fortified by ten millennia’ means multiplied by ten thousand; that makes it a million! Simple arithmetic.” His eyes sparkle like the eyes of a child who has just pulled off a trick that the big kids appreciate.
Amazed, unable to believe in the wealth that awaits me, all I can think of is the question, “And where is your part?”
“Ease your mind,” he mutters into his beard. “I’ve already got my share.”
“But I still don’t understand. In what way am I, an Israeli who has never been involved in business, connected to this matter?” I ask, still thinking there is some mistake.
“If Rabbi Dorfman gave you this booklet it means that he trusted you. If he trusted you, I can trust you too and will tell you the chain of events.” Bernstein pauses and tugs the edge of his beard.
“In the diamond business not everything is done openly. I have been in this business for thirty years, constantly traveling between New York and Tel Aviv doing business with dealers from Forty-seventh Street. I used to buy and sell, always made a profit.
On one occasion, at least ten years ago, I met Dorfman. A man of my kind with a heart of gold, all warmth and Jewish compassion. Even at our first meeting, a bond of mutual trust was formed between us. Over the years, our friendship grew closer, and over the past five years we became partners.
“Three years ago Rabbi Dorfman and I entered into a big transaction and the behaimes of Forty-Seventh Street trapped us. Yes, good observant Jews who are experienced thieves. Not all are pure souls like Rabbi Dorfman. They stole a million dollars from us in a sophisticated way that we could not prove, and there was no one we could claim the money from.
“Since me and Rabbi Dorfman became soul mates who think alike, we knew that one day when the time was right we would be able to recoup this sum and double it.” Bernstein pauses for a moment, looks at me intently and continues. “And don’t get me wrong, even this deal that we managed to crack up was not perfectly secure, there too, the bastards tried to bluff us. But this time we were the ones who surprised them. See, we also know how to steal. The sting worked, and each of us pocketed a million.”
I notice a nervous twitch on his lips when he picks up the story. “Once we were sure the money had come to us successfully, we arranged to meet in our favorite place, a strictly kosher deli on Second Avenue. Munching on cream cheese and lox bagels, celebrating our victory, Rabbi Dorfman said he was afraid to keep the money in New York. He asked me to keep the sum in Jerusalem. Before we parted, for the sake of formality, Reb Dorfman took out this little Book of Psalms from his pocket and wrote something on the front page. At first I did not understand what was written there, but Dorfman explained to me the obscure sentence and it’s double of meaning, just the way I explained it to you.
“See, Rabbi Dorfman was a wise scholar who had rabbinical ordination; he was always a few degrees above me. After he explained the writing to me, I signed willingly and stamped the bottom with the stamp of the publishing house, a stamp that I always carry with me in case I find a rare book and want to make a purchase agreement. That was the last time we saw each other.”
I keep silent, and Bernstein continues. “It may sound odd to my lady, but in the past year, without knowing about Rabbi Dorfman’s death, I came to a few insights that made me a less greedy person. Today, the love of the Creator, and only him lights my ways. It has made me more attentive to my wife and family. I like it here in Jerusalem, so I’m not flying anymore. I continue to do business but only with acquaintances. I feel sorry for Rabbi Dorfman. He was a dear friend, and it’s hard to talk about him in the past tense.”
“A million dollars is a huge sum,” I blurt out.
He nods in agreement. “Now that I’ve given you a whole seminar about good people who know how to steal, may I ask you a question? You have no obligation to answer.”
“Go ahead, ask, it’s all right,” I reply, already sensing what his question will be.
“You are such a beautiful woman… What is your connection with Rabbi Dorfman?” he asks and immediately says, “You don’t have to answer, really. It’s just a vague curiosity. You really do not have to answer.”
I stare at him, embarrassed yet proud. The idea that Dorfman might have preferred not to reveal his weakness is rustling in my head like a flutter of leaves. “Dorfman loved me,” I say after a long silence, looking away as if examining the bookshelves.
“I understand.” Bernstein is nodding his head. “So in the name of your love, I have advice for you, another thing I learned in the school of life. I understand you’re going back to New York. The authorities in United States immigration will not fail to detect such large sums, if you know what I mean. In order to avoid any difficulties, you should purchase a double-bottomed suitcase. The chance of them searching the bottom without prior knowledge is zero.”
“Thank you,” I say and gather my bag in my lap.
“Can you manage? It’s a little heavy.” He comes over and helps me steady the sack in my arms.
“Sure, thanks.” I speak in a low voice, doing my best to conceal my excitement.
My eyes are blinded by the transition from the white halogen light to the darkness outside. It takes me a few moments to adjust before I start walking. The rain taps on the bag, and I wrap it in a strong embrace, not letting the heavy weight slow my pace. Finding it hard to believe, as if I’m in a film in which I play the lead actress, I slip through the alleys like a shadow, swallowing the cold evening air with my eyes fixed on the ground and the bag colliding with my thighs. Dorfman’s image appears in my mind, a frightened Hasid who wanted to sneak out of the Love Palace by the fire escape. His alarmed expression accompanies my steps all through the dark streets of Jerusalem. He must have really loved me, I say to myself and tighten my grip on the sack.
