Hatchet

by Israel Levy

  “You know, Noomik, I haven’t slept all night (“Yeah, right, you’ve clearly just woken up”). I was listening to the news and I was so scared at first, but then I felt better after talking to you. They said it was a suicide bomber. Those Arabs. I swear, I almost died when I heard where it happened, I was so scared. I thought I lost my girl…” she couldn’t finish her sentence and was choked by tears. Naomi embraced her.

  “Shush mom, I’m here.”

  “I know, I just can’t help it. I think we should call Shuli, she must be really worried about you too,” she started making the coffee. “Sugar?”

  She asked for Sweet’n Low and got an avalanche of critique about her unhealthy diet and its effect on her sex life.

  “Take a seat mom, let’s talk a minute.”

  She sat down facing her, in the old fashioned kitchen that hadn’t changed since she’d been a child, growing up in that little apartment, the same units, that same glass-fronted cabinet laden with Polish porcelain, the same decorations on the wall, even the same table with the same plastic checkered tablecloth.

  “So mom, listen, I was with Shuli last night.”

  “Oh really? You didn’t say anything! Is she seeing someone? How are the girls?”

  “The girls are fine. I was with her until an hour ago. She’s sleeping now.”

  Her mother’s eyes froze as the realization sunk in. She turned pale, her hands flew to her mouth as if to stifle the scream in her throat.

  “What are you saying? What are you saying?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Mom, I got a call from the hospital yesterday.”

  “Oy vey, Shulinka!” her mother broke out in heart wrenching cries.

  “Mom, calm down.” Naomi got up, brought her mother a glass of water and told her everything, starting with Shuli’s current condition. Her mother faced her, taking in every word, her hands on her face, tears streaming uncontrollably onto her robe.

  “Tell me the truth, please. Is she dead? Is my girl dead?” her crying was almost hysterical now. Naomi tried to get her to calm down, to convince her.

  “No, mom, I swear. She’s been hurt, but the doctor said she will be alright,” but her mother wouldn’t believe her.

  “I don’t believe you. My Shulinka!” She got up and began pacing the small kitchen, smacking her palms against her cheeks.

  “Mom, stop it! She’s OK,” she grabbed her mother’s hand to stop her from hurting herself, pulled her close and held her tight. It was like the tables had turned, she was calming her mother down like her mother used to do for her when she was a little child.

  “Come on, Mom. Let’s go to the living room and have a rest. Where do you keep the valium?”

  She left her mother on the sofa, exhausted and moaning. She found the medicine in the bedside table and returned to the living room to find her mother lying on the sofa, almost passed out, crying into a cushion.

  “I knew it, I knew it, a mother always knows.”

  “Take a few drops first.”

  About ten minutes passed before the valium began to take effect.

  “Mom, let’s get you dressed. We’ll go by Shuli’s, pick up the girls and go to the hospital.”

  They met Jenia Rozenstein, the upstairs neighbor, in the elevator.

  “We’re going to see my daughter. She was injured in last night’s attack.”

  “Oy vey! Is there anything I can do?”

  “Jenia, just pray for her,” she said in Polish.

  They got into the car. Naomi made an illegal U-turn (“At least she isn’t criticizing my driving now,”) and parked outside Shuli’s house.

  The babysitter was standing in the doorway, waiting for Naomi, clearly cross.

  “I’m late for school, I missed a really important exam. How rude of Shuli not to come home like this!” Naomi grabbed her by the arm and shushed her.

  “Will you stop and listen for a second? Shuli was injured in last night’s bombing.

  The girl turned pale and silent before bursting into tears.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

  “I know, I know, calm down. You can go to school now, we’re here. Thank you.”

  They entered and found the girls asleep in the living room, little four year old Lihi huddled in seven year old Shira’s arms. The TV showed the horrific images from the attack and the morning news anchor began announcing the names of the deceased. Seeing images the demolished pub was still a shock, but Naomi stayed in control. She turned off the TV and woke the girls. They were surprised to see their aunt and grandma there.

  “Grandma! Naomi! Where’s Mom?”

  “Mom isn’t feeling well. Let’s get you washed up and we’ll go see her.”

  All the way to the hospital her mother did her best not to scare the kids (“She’s really pulling through”).

  “Why are we going to the hospital?”

  “Because your mom is waiting for us there.”

  They entered the E.R. holding the girls’ hands.

  “No children allowed,” an orderly chased them out, his Arab accent thick.

  “They’re the daughters of one of the injured patients from last night,” said Naomi, and he let them through.

  The beds had been rearranged since the previous night. She peeked behind some curtains, murmuring apologetically, until she spotted Shuli, fast asleep, hooked to I.V. fluids and heavily bandaged.

  “Mom, wait here with the girls. I’ll see that she’s okay for visitors.”

  She left her mother in the hallway, the girls clinging to her, frightened by the sight of the nurses and doctors, and entered Shuli”s room.

  “Shuli,” she whispered. Her sister opened her eyes.

  “Hi, Naomi.”

  “I brought Mom and the girls.”

  “Give me a second to wake up. Do the girls know what happened?”

  “Mom, you can come in now.”

  Her mother burst into silent sobs when she saw Shuli covered in bandages.

  “Shulinka, my baby, what have they done to you…”

  Shuli reached out her arm towards her mother and whispered “it’s okay Mom, I’m not in any pain and the doctor said everything’s going to be fine. They’re moving me to a different ward.”

  The girls started crying and ran to their mother’s bed to hug her.

  “Careful girls, don’t hurt her,” said Naomi as she stood aside, tears streaming down her face. It was heartbreaking to watch, but after seeing the previous night’s horrors, she knew her sister was extremely lucky.

  About fifteen minutes later a team of doctors arrived to check up on Shuli.

  “Doctor, how’s my daughter? Will she live?”

  “She’ll live, Mrs. Erez, she’ll be absolutely fine, it will just take time. You need to be patient.”

  “Girls, we’re going to leave now. Grandma will stay with you,” said Naomi. The girls were naturally reluctant to say goodbye to their mother.

  “Go on, girls. Everything is alright. Shira, you take care of your little sister. Bye, Mom. Keep in touch, Naomi,” said Shuli, and Naomi drove the girls and her mother back to Shuli’s house.

  “Mom, I think it’ll be best for the girls to stay in their own home. I’ll swing by your place later and bring you some clothes. I have to get to the office, so I’ll talk to you later.”

  It was around lunch time when she arrived at the office.

  “Naomi, what happened? How’s Shuli?” Yael greeted her with a worried look on her face. Many of her colleagues gathered around Naomi after hearing about what had happened.

  “Everything is okay. She sustained some minor injuries. She’s in the hospital, fully conscious. By the way, did anyone call for me?”

  “No. Anyone specific? A client?”

  “No, actually. It’s that guy you gav
e my home address to a couple of days ago.” Yael was clearly embarrassed.

  Naomi tried to focus on recent developments in the case and asked the team to gather in her office for updates. To her surprise, Leibowitz joined the meeting as well.

  “Why don’t we do this in the conference room? I think we’ll all be more comfortable,” she suggested.

  They moved to the conference room carrying stacks of books and summation notes in crammed writing. Rami spoke first, giving an overview of legal findings and presenting precedents they had found after long hours in the office library. Michal and Nirit focused on reviewing relevant international treaties.

  After four hours Leibowitz said “Listen, I think this is a complex, international law issue, that requires in depth analysis and thought. We need to look at the international law angle because this is a highly sensitive subject. We sent summaries to the Belgian branch and they indicated several issues which we need to address. I suggest that Naomi, as the team leader, should handle the Belgian communications personally,” he turned to her. “We’ve already booked your tickets. I know this may be uncomfortable and you would probably prefer staying here with your sister but I need you to be on the El Al flight to Brussels at noon tomorrow. Albert from the office will meet you at the airport. You’ll be on a return flight the next day. I’m sorry this falls to you at such a difficult time but we really have no other choice.”

  The team members looked at Leibowitz in surprise, clearly feeling he was being insensitive to Naomi’s unusual situation. Naomi was equally thrown. She tried to pass the assignment on to Rami or Michal, but Leibowitz insisted it had to be her. She didn’t quite understand why this was so urgent that she must abandon her sister at this moment. She called Lihi and Shira’s teachers and informed them that the girls would be staying home for the next few days. By the time she left the office it was almost seven p.m.

  She considered going to her mother’s (“I’ll bring her some clothes and see if she needs any of her medications”), but made a detour instead and stopped by their beach (“It’s ‘our’ beach now, not just mine”). She could feel her heart aching with longing for Moshe. The sun was nearly at the horizon, collecting its rays, leaving a golden trail on the waves, until it finally vanished into the sea.

  She got out of the car and felt the light ocean breeze caressing her skin. Shivering slightly, her thoughts settled on the memory of Moshe lying beside her in bed, but then Shuli’s image appeared in her head and she felt a twinge of disappointment, thinking how Moshe left without a trace (“I wonder if he came here before his flight. No, it’s tomorrow actually. Maybe I have a message on my voicemail”).

  She arrived at her mother’s apartment. “Mom, what do you need me to bring?”

  “Just my pink robe. I’ll throw what I’m wearing now in the laundry here. Oh and my medications are by the bed, and I’ll need my toothbrush and… that’s it. When are you coming?”

  She found an old suitcase and threw in some clothes as well as the robe and other items her mother had asked for.

  “I don’t understand. Don’t they realize you nearly lost your sister? Why does it have to be you who has to go?” her mother was upset and struggled to come to terms with the sudden trip.

  She visited her sister the next morning (“I have some time before my flight”) who by now was able to sit up in bed.

  “How are the girls and mom handling things?”

  “They’re doing fine. I brought mom some stuff and I spoke with Lihi and Shira’s teachers and told them they’d be staying home for now. Mom will be with them. They’re alright. How are you?”

  “I’ll be fine too. What about you?”

  “Listen, I have to fly out for the day to our Brussels branch. I’m kind of mad at Leibowitz, I don’t know why, but he insists that I be the one to go, even though he knows what happened to you. I hope you’re okay with that. I really don’t want to be taken off the case he gave me.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s absolutely fine. I got off easy. It’s been quite a trauma for you too. Go on, make the most of life, it can be very short,” said Shuli with a smile.

  Naomi promised she’d be back as soon as she could. She returned home and had just enough time to pack a small bag for an overnight stay when the taxi honked for her. The driver had the radio on and the news was already on the next item. “In a targeted operation, IDF choppers hit…”

  “Could you put some music on, please? I’m really not in the mood for war.”

  The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror and reluctantly changed the channel.

  With nothing but a small handbag she made it through check-in in no time, got her passport stamped at border control (“Lucky I renewed it just this summer for my trip to Crete”) and even had a bit of time to browse in the duty free shops. She grabbed a cart, strolled through the aisles and picked out two bottles of perfume. “I’d like to pick these up when I return,” she told the cashier. She quickly made her way to the gate where she saw a long line of people waiting to board the flight and chose to sit rather than stand in line (“What’s the rush”).

  There were about twenty other passengers, like her, sitting, waiting. As the line grew shorter she got up and approached the gate. Someone nudged her from behind and she moved aside but felt another push (“So pushy!”). She turned back and crossed eyes with a young woman dressed in an El Al ground staff uniform. She thought she looked familiar (“Where have I seen her before?”). The woman stood next to her (“Wait, isn’t that…?”).

  “Hatcher,” whispered the young woman, her eyes facing forward as if nothing was going on. Naomi tensed. It was Keren, the architect from the meeting at Yirmiyahu. With everything that had happened recently she’d forgotten all about the Mossad. Keren placed a briefcase at Naomi’s feet and disappeared.

  “This is the final call for passengers on El Al flight number 343 to Brussels. Remaining passengers are requested to make their way to Gate 35.”

  She picked up the briefcase, trying unsuccessfully to locate Keren in the crowd, and handed her boarding pass to an annoyed attendant (“Would it kill her to smile?”) who castigated her for being the last one on the plane.

  “Good afternoon, board quickly please, we’re about to take off.”

  She picked up a newspaper and was shown to her seat by one of the flight attendants. Most passengers were already in their seats, apart from a few people who were placing their handbags in the overhead compartments. Her seat was in the fourth row, by the window. She placed her handbag in the compartment and pulled it shut, apologizing for making the couple sharing her row get up to let her through, and finally took her seat, the briefcase at her feet.

  “Can I store that for you? You’ll be more comfortable.”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine,” she insisted on keeping it close to her.

  She leaned back in her seat, looking out at the airport through the window. She saw people getting off a bus and on to a South African Airways jet. Suddenly, she thought she recognized Moshe as one of the passengers. He looked very different in a tailored suit and sunglasses (“Oh, that’s right, he is flying today too”).

  “Excuse me, do you know where that flight’s headed?” she asked the flight attendant, pointing to the Air France jet.

  “Kenya, I think, but I’m not sure. Please buckle your seat belt, we’re getting ready for takeoff” (Kenya? Didn’t he say he was going to Europe? I guess it wasn’t him after all, I must have mistaken. That would explain those clothes that were so unlike him, too”).

  She put on her headphones, switched to the jazz channel, closed her eyes and relaxed. She skipped lunch (“There’s nothing I hate more than airplane food, plus you feel like your arms need to shoot out straight from your waist to be able to eat properly”). With her seat belt still on, she woke to the sound of the wheels touching the ground by the sound, as the brakes screeched, preventing the
plane from racing forward.

  Her passport stamped she turned to the exit, passing by customs agents who were sitting on the side, paying no attention to the arriving passengers. She emerged into the welcome hall, trying to spot Albert, whom she had met only once during his visit to Israel a year before. All their communications since then had been limited to emails.

  “Hi, Naomi.” The French-sounding voice surprised her from behind and she saw a man in his forties in an elegant suit and matching tie, with black hair, a pair of glasses, and a smile.

  “Bonsoir, Albert,” they kissed on both cheeks.

  “Come, I took a taxi here.”

  He wanted to help her with her briefcase but she wouldn’t let go. They got into a cab and the driver sped quickly into the moving traffic.

  “Hatchet.”

  She turned to the driver in amazement, finding it hard to believe what she had just heard.

  “I’m sorry, you said something?” she asked him in French.

  “Hatchet,” he repeated in Hebrew, and looked to Albert by her side.

  “Yes, Naomi, it’s OK.”

  Albert took the briefcase from her hands and placed it on the front seat next to the driver. The driver opened it and she could see from the corner of her eye, several pistols and cartridges in a foam casing, before he shut the briefcase closed again.

  This was all a bit much for her (“What’s happening? Is everyone working for the Mossad? And what if I’d been held up at customs?!”)

  “Naomi, let me give you a quick briefing. We’re going to a Hatcher safe house where you will meet someone who has just returned from Kenya. He is going to give us some highly confidential, top secret information. He made an explicit demand that the information only be transmitted verbally, so there are to be no records or documentation. You alone will receive the communication. You will listen carefully and memorize it, and pass it forward in exact detail at Yirmiyahu, to the Hatchet people, including Abraham (“And I thought I was here to discuss international law”).

  As if able to read her mind Albert continued. “We will then move on to our own offices for a discussion regarding treaties and international law precedents which I’ve found to be relevant to your case in Israel. You have a room booked for the night at the Holiday Inn City Center and your return flight is tomorrow at noon. For now, just relax. We have an hour’s drive before we arrive at the safe house.”