“Well, I know it’s the best coffee in the world because I know Costa Rica,” he replied maliciously.
“Really? When were you there?”
“In the fifties, when I traveled from Argentina on my way to Israel.”
“And how long did you stay in the country?”
“About three or four years.”
It didn’t make sense. “If this man was a Schirano with a second last name and had been in the country, how come he didn’t contact my mother, who was his cousin?” I said to myself. However, something was happening that didn’t allow me to think correctly; I should have realized that the man was hiding information.
“And what were you doing in Costa Rica?” I asked.
“I was teaching, just like in Israel.”
“What were you teaching?”
“Hebrew?”
“But how come I didn’t know you if I attended the classes?” I asked deeply.
“I don’t know, I guess it wasn’t the same years when you went to school.”
“Can you tell me again which years it was?”
“In the fifties, but I don’t remember exactly which ones. I know it was before my wife’s accident in Guatemala, where I went after Costa Rica.”
If I had been disconnected from the conversation for the past half hour, the words “Guatemala” and
“accident” made me break out in a sweat. My friend 192
Lisa, before she left, had told me that moráh Ruth had died in Guatemala.
“What was your wife’s name?” I asked.
“Ruth,” Fabel replied.
“It can’t be,” I said, “it can’t be! You are Pablo Koplovich, my Hebrew teacher!”
“Well, yes, who else?”
When I realized it, it was five in the afternoon, time to leave. This man knew, from the beginning, that it was his student whom he mercilessly attacked. He had been with me for four hours and precisely before leaving, he let me know. He not only knew who I was now, but also back then. For some sick reason, he kept the information to himself forty years ago and he was doing it again at this very moment. I could have asked him a thousand more questions, but not a word would come out of my mouth. I was paralyzed.
Fabel stood up and limped out to the car; we didn’t say anything else.
“How could I explain the hatred he had for me and the humiliations he made me go through?”
The anger he felt towards me was not because I was a fool, stupid, worthless, or because I didn’t live in La Sabana, as I had believed all my life. It was because of some family secret. The man - I thought - took it out on me for our escape from Poland before, or because he hated all the Schiranos who did nothing to help them, or because he was so traumatized that he hated his mishpuje (family).