Supported by “Am Ha-Sefer”—the Israeli Fund for Translation of Hebrew Books
The Cultural Administration, Israel Ministry of Culture and Sport
English translation copyright © 2016 by Jessica Cohen
Original Hebrew edition copyright © by Nava Semel
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including electronic storage and retrieval systems, except by explicit prior written permission of the publisher. Brief passages may be excerpted for review and critical purposes.
Published by arrangement with the Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature.
This book is typeset in Monotype Waldbaum. The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R1997).
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Semel, Nava. | Cohen, Jessica, translator.
Title: Isra Isle / translated Nava Semel by Jessica Cohen.
Other Titles: Ísra’el. English
Description: Simsbury, Connecticut: Mandel Vilar Press, [2016] | Translation of: Ísra’el.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-942134-20-6 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Jewish refugees—New York (State)—Grand Island (Island)—Fiction. | Jews—New York (State)—Fiction. | Newly independent states—Unites States—Fiction. | Grand Island (N.Y.: Island)—Fiction. | Alternative histories (Fiction) | Jewish fiction.
Classification: LCC PJ5054.S24939 I8713 2016 (print) | LCC PJ5054. S24939 (ebook) | DDC 892.437—dc23
16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Mandel Vilar Press
19 Oxford Court, Simsbury, Connecticut 06070
www.americasforconservation.org www.mvpress.org
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS EDITION is supported by Joey and Carol Low; it is dedicated to Edward and Hannah Low, and Marcel and Mignon Lorie, children during the Second World War, who, despite all their personal travails, managed to build large families who are devoted to the well-being of Israel and the Jewish people.
In memory of my beloved father,
always my helping spirit.
CONTENTS
PART ONE
Grand Island
PART TWO
Ararat
PART THREE
Isra Isle
Always in your mind keep Ithaca.
To arrive there is your destiny.
But do not hurry your trip in any way.
Better that it last for many years;
that you drop anchor at the island an old man,
rich with all you’ve gotten on the way . . .
—Constantine Cavafy, from “Ithaca”
Translated by Daniel Mendelsohn
SEPTEMBER 2001
WITHOUT A trace.
Every missing person notice ends with this succinct phrase that is part desperation, part acceptance of an extraordinary event.
Like an actor in rehearsals, Simon T. Lenox recites the inevitable next line: “As if he was swallowed up by the earth.” His face adopts an expression his ex-wives all perceived as a highly effective weapon because it perfectly disguised his intentions.
The earth only swallows up dead people, Lenox scribbles in his notepad, but man swallows up himself. He rips the page out and shoots it into the wastepaper basket. He will have to tell the commissioner to give the case to someone else. He has no intention of wearing himself out on a wild-goose chase for some Israeli gone missing in America. Not at his age. Not in his position.
Still holding the pad, he can’t help catching the missing man’s photograph out of the corner of his eye. He instantly imprints the Israeli’s image in his memory—an aptitude he was born with, or perhaps acquired during his many years of hunting people down. The man’s eyes are narrowed; he looks startled by the sudden camera flash. His hair is neatly trimmed except for a few stray locks that might have grown back too quickly. He has a square, rigid chin and sunken cheeks. He gives off a faint whiff of defiance. A man of Lenox’s own age, more or less, looking formal. No special markings.
When Lenox holds the page up, he notices a stain above the NYPD commissioner’s handwriting: “Urgent! Special request from State Dept.”
If only he could shred the piece of paper into tiny scraps, including the trite phrase “without a trace.” How futile to search for people the earth has swallowed up, leaving nothing behind for their loved ones except the uncertainty of their death. He’s not going to bear this weight on his shoulders. The home-grown cases are bad enough—now he’s supposed to worry about the Israelis, too? Fuck the Israelis.
HIS PROTESTS are met with indifference in the commissioner’s office. Simon T. Lenox pounds his fist on the desk hard enough to make his notepad jump. His colleagues peer out from behind their partitions. There’s nothing new about a confrontation between Lenox and the commissioner, but such violent outbursts are rare. Some colleagues have been recommending early retirement, and there is persistent gossip about the celebrated investigator who has lost his magic touch.
What is so special about this Israeli man that makes the United States government want to find him? Has he committed a crime?
The commissioner shakes his head.
Then why is he wanted? Is he going to be extradited to Israel?
No.
Perhaps he is privy to top secrets that can’t be allowed out? Or is he working for a hostile entity?
The commissioner doesn’t bother to reply.
Might the Israeli be an embarrassment to his country, or a threat to US security? Because if all he is liable to do is hurt himself, then that is none of their fucking business.
Once the shouting stops, the commissioner makes sure the door is closed.
It’s a delicate matter, Lenox. I need an expert on this case. We have our reasons.
But Simon T. Lenox does not