The Betrayers

Coda

On the flight to Tel Aviv, Kotler looked out from under the brim of his hat. He was in the middle seat; Leora had the window. A young Hasid with sidelocks and black garb sat on the aisle. The middle seat had originally been Leora’s but the Hasid had politely asked if Kotler might be willing to switch with her. He hadn’t explained why and they hadn’t required him to. It was a small accommodation on a full plane. Not the place to make an egalitarian stand.

The airline was Ukrainian and the plane contained a mingling of humanity that now existed only on a flight like this. It was a little flying shtetl. A Sholem Aleichem story come to life. Sitting side by side, row by row, was every Jewish derivation. There were Hasids who worshipped God one way, rival Hasids who worshipped Him another, and the Zionist Orthodox who worshipped Him a third. There were the families of the merchant class who spoke Hebrew, and the families of the biznismeni who spoke Russian. There were the artists and intellectuals like Leora and Kotler, with their grand philosophical visions. And there were the young American Jews, carefree, heedless, and a little dim, cushioned from history and entrusted with too much. Interspersed among them were Russians and Ukrainians, quiet and unperturbed, accustomed to these Jews from longstanding acquaintance. It was a model of coexistence as it may never have been and as it had failed to become. The moment the plane landed, it would dissolve, with everyone returning to his barricade.

How much changed, Kotler thought, was his outlook now compared to his first arrival in Israel. Practically antithetical. Twenty-five years earlier he had been filled with joy. The entire country had been astir. The prime minister had sent an official plane. They flew from Prague to Tel Aviv, just the Israeli aircrew, two diplomats, Miriam, and him. It was the high point of his life. He had never felt such promise, such optimism.

Now he was on an airplane surrounded by his people, his ideal little world, but he was hiding under his hat. He still retained his wonderment at the thought of Israel — that after millennia of exile, this country existed; that he’d had the good fortune to be born into this time; and that he had prevailed against an awesome foe to gain his place there — but he despaired for its future. His countrymen no longer waited impatiently for his arrival. Rather, he was the object of scorn and ridicule. His time had passed. The country desired a different kind of hero. Perhaps he should be proud, for he had supplied it with one.

But he remembered the night twenty-five years ago when he’d had his first glimpse of the land, the dark contours of Jerusalem scrolling by, the ancient city speckled with light, his heart stretched to the limit, as though pulled from above and below, his eyes welling with tears of primordial grief and thanksgiving, and the words of the Psalm resounding in his head in a strong mystical voice, When the Lord brought back those that returned to Zion, we were like dreamers. And he remembered the feel of Miriam’s hand in his as they made their descent, holding her tight because otherwise he would burst from the plane from impatience, and the view of the tarmac with the honor guard and the brass band and the billowing flags, and the throng of a thousand jubilant faces, who were already singing when he stepped from the plane.

David, King of Israel, lives, lives and endures!