1979
Just like that, the certainty of what was about to happen slammed into Meira, but she turned when she should have called for help, stared at his retreating form when she should have fled.
She tried to corral her thoughts into action as she looked again at the bin, but the force of the blast knocked her over, and she hit the pavement hard, landing on her art satchel. As she attempted to cover her face and turn away, the pain in her skull, in her leg, now in her back, crippled her. Her ears rang. Screams, wails, all sounded muffled.
That man had planted a bomb, and the something everyone in Jerusalem, in all of Israel, prayed would never come this close, had come close enough to kill. Not her this time. But others must be dead, maimed. She had to help. Someone had to help.
Dust and smoke almost overwhelmed the dark, coppery scent of blood that trickled across her cheek to her lips. Or maybe it was the metallic taste in her mouth that made her think of copper. She imagined destruction out there. The area around the bin would be chaos. There’d be bodies sprawled, limbs torn. Eyes staring blindly.
She swallowed a scream that would be less than useless as the air filled with sirens and weeping, cries of anguish. Words broke through the ringing in her ears. She caught the sound of Arabic and French, but the pleas for mercy were almost exclusively in her native Hebrew. She whispered a prayer that no one had died. That she wouldn’t die. And although others probably had, she didn’t imagine she would. Not today.
Feet, the slap of sandals, passed nearby, along with the pounding of heavier shoes. She should stand and run, shouldn’t she, at least to help? But she couldn’t move.
And then something tripped and fell on her, a body, warm flesh, filthy and stinking of sweat, maybe of urine. There was a cry, hers, she thought, and a moan, before the body rolled to the side and pushed itself up, cursing, as it—he—fled.
She should flee, too, if for no other reason than to keep from being trampled, but knives sliced through her leg when she moved it even slightly. “Adonai, have mercy,” she whispered.
And then a hand clasped her arm. Someone said, “Come,” in Hebrew. Said it gently. Said it close to her ear. “Let me help you.”
She gazed up into eyes that were a dark blue, surprisingly gentle as they stared back. The hair was brown under its covering of dust. “My leg.” Her throat had clogged. She cleared it.
“Which one?” he asked, swiping blood off his forehead from a cut just below his hairline.
She wore trousers, loose ones for comfort. “The right. It may be bleeding on the back side.”
“Do you think it’s broken? Is it the thigh or the calf?” He spoke with an accent. American?
“Below the knee. Not broken. Cut, I imagine. I twisted it, but this feels like a gash. Maybe from something in my art bag.” She hoped that’s what it was. “But you should help the others. I will be fine.”
“No,” he said in that calm, reasonable tone that provided such comfort. “There is help enough for the other wounded. I’ll get you home.”
“Perhaps you could just call my father? He will come.” And this man would know she had protection, the protection of a father. Because who was he, this would-be rescuer? He could be a friend of that Arab, come to finish the job.
She closed her eyes. No, that was absurd. He’d also been hit by debris. Besides, he was American.
“Your father won’t be allowed through. I am here. Let me.”
He scooped her up, along with her bag, cradling her like a baby against his chest, one strong arm under her knees. She moaned. She tried not to, but knives shot through her leg when it dangled like that. She was probably bleeding all over him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Perhaps I should take you to the hospital first.”
“No. The hospital will be packed with people in worse shape.”
“Then we’ll get to my car, and you can tell me where to go.”
He took care as he walked, as if she were a precious burden. No one had carried her since she was a child, and although her father’s arms often held her, this stranger’s care felt overwhelming in ways that left her breathless. Under the coating of dust and the stench of smoke, she could detect the slight odor of something else, something male that set her heart to thurumping in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline and fear.
Tony brought her back to the present. “Mom . . . gagging here.” He pointed his finger into his mouth and made a retching sound.
She hated that gesture. Instead of dealing with it, she said, “Oh, right. Sorry.” Only, she wasn’t sorry. It wouldn’t hurt her boy to know how she’d felt about his father from the first moment of meeting him, of him touching her.
“How do you know it was an Arab and not a Jew being sneaky? That’s what they do.” Tony rubbed his forearms.
She reached out to cover the hand nearest her. “Honey, are you cold?” When he shook his head and drew away, she asked, “Then tell me, why would a Jew have planted a bomb that killed all those other Jews?”
“By accident?”
“No. He picked a busy street corner where mostly Jews shopped. There wasn’t a single Arab killed.”
“Besides,” David said, “the next afternoon, the PFLP, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, claimed responsibility for setting it.”
“Yeah, right.” Tony crossed his arms. A scowl dragged his lips into a line. “That was probably made up, too. Like the rest.”
Her husband’s expression hardened in response. “I’m willing to be patient, young man, but you’re pushing the limits with that attitude. You need to listen and use the brain you’ve been given.”
The pout grew, and Tony ’s eventual “Sorry” sounded more sullen than apologetic.
“I want you to picture the street right after the bombing,” David said.
“I thought you were going to talk about afterward.”
“We will. But I want you to see the thing from my perspective. I was only a tourist in Israel, there to visit and reconnect with family. So the last thing I expected to see when I stopped for a cup of coffee was carnage.”
“Carnage? You mean like dead bodies?”
“Like dead bodies.”
“Were there lots?”
“I had no idea at first, because it was hard to tell who was dead and who was injured. But there was a lot of screaming and a lot of debris—and a lot of people on the ground, bleeding.”
5
David
The dirt and the stench of blood and excrement had been overshadowed by screams and cries for help. “After a shard of something—probably glass from a broken window—nicked my forehead, I rushed from the coffee shop, intent only on seeing what I could do to help. The other patrons ran every which way, a few into the chaos beside me.”
He closed his eyes momentarily. “Your mother was the first person I came across after the explosion. I had no way of knowing then that nineteen people died that day. Four of those were children waiting with their mother for the bus.”
Tony looked at Meira. “Kids?” His voice went up an octave. “Dead?”
“And dozens injured.”
1979
Some of the settling dust had fallen on David. He’d never witnessed destruction like this, not even in the Navy, where he’d trained other pilots instead of going to war. He’d been good at it, so he’d lucked out, then—and now.
But these poor people hadn’t.
He bent over a young woman and offered help. She protested before allowing him to carry her to his car. She was a stunning creature, in spite of the blood and dirt on her face. In spite of her almost mannish clothing. None of that took away from those huge eyes with those incredibly long lashes. Lashes that were real.
Like her curves. And the texture of her skin under the dust. With lips that—
Meira’s interruption pulled him back. “David, my turn to remind you of your audience.”
“Yeah, Dad.”
Was that a trace of real humor
in Tony’s smirk? David grinned back, just in case. “Sorry. I got a little carried away,” he said. “I’ll keep it kid-friendly, but I think my attraction to your mother was how HaShem pointed her out as my future wife.”
David chose to ignore Tony’s curled lip and concentrate on making this a love story their son would remember. His own parents’ romance had kept him focused on the end game and made him unwilling to settle for less than they’d had. Maybe it would work the same way for Tony—eventually.
“Back to Jerusalem and the aftermath of the bombing.”
1979
David tried to carry the woman loosely so as not to jar her injured leg, but he needed to get her to safety in case another bomb went off. Grateful he’d parked far enough away that he’d be able to get to the car without running afoul of police and rescue vehicles, he headed down the block and around a corner.
“We’re almost to my rental.”
She nodded against his chest. “Toda. Thank you.”
“By the way, I’m David Rassadim.”
“Meira. Meira Barash.”
“I’d rather the circumstances were different, but I’m glad to meet you.”
She blushed. He could see the red even through the dust coating her face. If anything, that blush sealed it for him.
And there sat the car, untouched by the havoc behind them. But how to get her in and settled? He shot up a prayer. Suggestions?
He’d no more than thought the request when a man approached and asked, “May I help?”
David smiled, both at the man and toward the sky. “My right front pocket. The keys.” He lifted the woman away from his side to give the man access.
“Back seat?” the man who might have been an angel asked.
“I think so.”
“Blood,” she said. “Your car.”
“Ah, yes. There’s a jacket on the passenger seat.”
Soon, the door was open, and the man spread out the jacket and helped slide Meira into the seat. Her big eyes registered pain, but she bit her bottom lip.
To stifle a moan? To appear brave? David squeezed her hand and sighed to himself when she squeezed back.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice wavering. “Thank you both.”
The other man waved and hurried off, perhaps to help others. David climbed in behind the wheel. “Will you give me directions? I am merely a tourist here.”
“American?”
He grinned at that. Of course, she’d heard the non-native in his speech. “New York.”
“The city?”
“Only occasionally. Mostly upstate.”
She told him where to turn, how to get to her father’s home. And when they arrived, she waited in the car while he rang her father’s doorbell.
He brushed excess dust from his shirt and slacks and used his sleeve to clean as much from his face as he could while he waited, hating that he’d have to turn her over to her family. To say goodbye.
An aproned woman opened the door. “Shalom,” he said, “I have Meira Barash in the car. She’s been injured.”
The woman’s hand flew to her mouth, and she peered around him. “Oh, the poor darling. Come, come. Bring her. I will find her father, her mother. You bring her into the house.” She dashed away, leaving the door open.
He returned to the car. Meira helped again, scooting back toward him using her good leg until he was able to hoist her out with one arm around her waist, the other ready to cradle her legs again. He was grateful she was neither heavy nor tall, but instead fit perfectly against him. “That’s good. Just hang on,” he said as she circled his neck with her arm. She turned when he eased her out so she could hold onto him and he could again stand with her. Her satchel slammed against his side, but she didn’t seem to notice. By the time they reached the house, two women met them.
An older gentleman appeared behind the women, waved him forward, and said in Hebrew, “This way. Give the man room.”
“She’s bleeding,” David said, eyeing the sofa. “A towel under her leg?”
The one who must have been Meira’s mother grabbed what looked like a knitted blanket and spread it on the upholstered surface. As David lowered his burden and set down her bag, Mrs. Barash spoke to the aproned woman. “Bina, would you please bring warm water, a cloth, and towels?”
David extended his hand to the father. “David Rassadim. I came across your daughter just after the blast. She didn’t want me to take her to the hospital.”
“The hospitals are probably overflowing. We will allow her mother to see to the wounds and decide if Meira needs a doctor. You will come with me, please?” He bent over his daughter and bussed her forehead. “I will want to hear all after your mother examines you. Yes?”
“Ken, yes.” Meira looked over at David. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done.”
“I’m glad I could help.” He smiled, wishing he could say more, do more. Then he followed her father out and across the hall.
“Perhaps you would like to wash first? You, too, have a wound.”
“Thank you, I would. Mr. Barash.” David spoke the name almost as an afterthought. To show respect and to imprint it. He didn’t want to forget her name. Ever.
“Eban, please.” Meira’s father indicated another door at the end of the hall. “I will await you here in my library.”
David cleaned up as best he could without soiling one of the luxurious towels set aside for guests. The cut in his forehead had stopped bleeding, but he could do with a shower and a change of clothes.
The library smelled of old books and leather overlaid with something that must have been furniture polish. David stood, awkwardly aware of the dirt still clinging to his slacks.
Eban pointed him to one of the large leather chairs. “Please, be seated.”
As the older man moved to a sideboard, David studied his appearance: the tailored slacks, the pressed white shirt, the thick head of still-dark hair. Meira’s father looked like a man who wielded power.
Eban switched to British-accented English. “May I offer you a drink? Scotch? It is something I learned to enjoy during my time in England.” At David’s “Yes, please,” he lifted the decanter top, poured two fingers’ worth in each glass, and handed one to David.
Back home, David would have asked for ice. Or a beer. He took a small sip and tried not to wince when the fire hit his throat. “Thank you.”
“I am grateful to you for helping my daughter.” Eban eased into the other large chair and lifted his glass in salute.
“I happened to be at the right place at the right moment. Anyone would have done the same.”
“I disagree and consider it an unusual kindness that, instead of running away, you brought her home.” The older man contemplated the amber liquor in his glass before sipping. “You are an American. I find that interesting. I have never visited America, although I attended school in Britain and have encouraged my two children to learn other languages. English and Arabic. Also French. These are good for them, here and abroad.”
“Do you and your family travel often?” Maybe if he made conversation, it would open a door for him to visit again. To become acquainted with this man’s daughter. With Meira.
What a beautiful name. Light. Had her parents considered its meaning when they named her? Because it fit. He couldn’t imagine her being called anything else.
Her smile certainly lit something in him.
And wasn’t that a puzzle? Oh, he’d been lit up by women before, but only on the surface, like a damp match that sparked and then fizzled. This felt different. It reminded him of the flame in one of those little cans of cooking fuel that could boil soup and keep it simmering for hours when the electricity went off.
Eban seemed ready to talk, but he did so slowly, sometimes sipping, sometimes contemplating his glass. “We enjoy travel and do so when we can, especially to England where my son is doing post-graduate work. We have been through much of Europe, including my wife’s hometown just outside of Munich. Of her
family, only she and her mother survived the war, and her mother died soon after.”
“The camps?” The thought of them made his gut twist. It always did.
“Dachau. They called it a labor camp. It wasn’t.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”
“No. Nor I. But you, you don’t have a Jewish surname.”
“Armenian. My grandfather. He married a girl from Jaffa who raised their children in the Jewish tradition. They eventually went to the United States, but my father came here at the end of WWII to study at the Hebrew University. He married an Israeli and took her back to New York with him. I was born in the States.”
“So you have dual citizenship?”
“I do.”
“And I imagine you have relatives still here.”
David laughed. “More than I can count, on both sides.”
“That too is a good thing. My poor wife has none, but I have many, so my children have a family. That is important.”
Tony stopped him with a lifted hand. “Whoa. Dual citizenship? You’re Israeli?”
“And American.”
“I thought you were just American. Like me.”
“Well—”
“Not yet.” Meira raised a brow, reminding him to back away from that conversation.
David nodded. “I was about to tell your grandfather about my uncle, Avram Katz, with whom I was staying. You haven’t met him yet, but I’m sure you will someday.”
“He’s Israeli.” Tony looked as glum as he sounded.
“Yes. Your grandfather knew who my Uncle Avram was, and the relationship seemed to please him, so he asked me more about myself, where I’d gone to school.”
“Did you tell him true stuff?”
“I did. I told him about my graduate degree from Cornell, my stint in the Navy, my engineering job. He invited me to dinner the next day.”
From Fire Into Fire Page 2