From Fire Into Fire

by Normandie Fischer

  Meira sighed. “I imagine they’d been taught to believe that, but most of my Arab students appreciated the standard of living and education available to them, which was, and still is, much higher than in the surrounding Arab countries.”

  David intervened. “We can debate the politics of the area later. Right now, we have a story to tell, and whatever personal grievances those young men believed they had, they were determined to silence your mother by killing her.”

  She couldn’t let it go, not yet. “Too many of them have been raised to believe all Jews should be forced into the sea just because we’re Jews.”

  “Because the Jews took their homeland.” Tony’s tone made her want to cuff him. She’d never hit him, but had he ever been this belligerent toward them?

  She took a deep breath and released it slowly. She needed calm. They’d tried to help Tony learn to be open-minded and accepting, but he’d been surrounded for years by those who looked at Israel with jaundiced eyes, too often red-veined with hatred.

  David firmed his grip on her. “This isn’t the time for that debate.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She longed for some of his patience, wishing it would transfer through touch. “So, then. After the doctor stitched up my arm and I stopped in at the police station to assure them that the man behind bars wasn’t the bomber, we realized we’d better implement some plan that would actually keep us all safe.”

  “You get that, don’t you?” David asked Tony. “A murderer running loose who knew your mother’s family name put them all in danger, not just Mom. Especially because your grandfather was a member of the Knesset, the Israeli parliament. His job was important enough to make him a prime target.”

  “Nono?” Tony’s eyes widened, but then he returned to the sneer that made him singularly unattractive and not at all like her son. Meira wanted to take a washcloth and scrub it off. “I guess that’s not so important in a tiny country like Israel, not like in America.”

  “Your grandfather,” David said, his voice growing softer as it always did when he was trying to control his anger, “held an important position in the only democracy in the Middle East. Keep that in mind when you spout the party line of your former classmates.”

  Tony hung his head, but he didn’t respond. Into that silence, the phone rang.

  Meira sighed. “Mr. Holloway, Dean of Students at the Belvedere School, phoned while you were outside. He wants to know when we can bring Tony to see the school.”

  Tony pulled a throw pillow to his chest. “Never. Tell him ‘never.’ I don’t want to go to some dumb boarding school.”

  David put up a hand to stop Tony’s words. “We’ll call him later. Let’s take a break for a little while. I’ll get us something to drink.”

  Good. They needed to put this discussion on pause. Before she said something she’d regret.

  David slid his strong arms around her as she leaned back against the counter. “Come here, you.”

  She clung to him. “It’s so hard.”

  “I know, love.” He nuzzled her hair, bringing his lips to her forehead and then moving them slowly down her cheek. “You smell of verbena,” he whispered before lifting her chin so his lips could touch hers, lightly, sweetly, and then deeply.

  He straightened, still holding her close. “I want to tell our son how it felt for me, falling in love with you, fearing for you. I want him to know it all from my perspective, a foreigner in Israel who saw first-hand what it was like.”

  She nodded into his shoulder. “Then you should tell him, but it probably won’t mean much to him now. Not yet, anyway.”

  “But maybe he’ll think about it in years to come. How HaShem brought us together. How the Lord protected us.”

  Meira pulled away and looked up at him. “Have we done a disservice to our faith? After this, will Tony ever accept who he is? Who we are?”

  “He’s still young. We have years to help him past the shock of this discovery.”

  “But we won’t be here.”

  “We’ll be here for the rest of the summer, for every vacation, and any time he needs us.”

  She wanted to believe him—and David obviously wanted to convince himself. They should have told Tony sooner, when young meant malleable, tractable. But then they would have had to send him away to school sooner.

  And she hadn’t been able to stand that thought, had she? So they’d waited. She prayed they hadn’t waited too long.

  “Two more months before we give him over to a school,” she said. “That’s not a lot of time.”

  David closed his eyes. She imagined him agreeing. Regretting. Thinking two months wasn’t much time at all.

  She glanced toward the living room. “He needs to go do something active. Is it too hot for you guys to jog?”

  “Much.” David didn’t look like he wanted even to consider movement.

  “His legs are jittery. He needs exercise.”

  “Fine. I’ll take him out to shoot a few hoops.” He grabbed two of the glasses and led the way into the living room.

  Tony sat with his feet propped against the rough-hewn coffee table and his head almost ninety degrees from his chest. The kid looked like a candidate for scoliosis.

  “Sit up,” David said, extending a glass of water.

  Tony grunted, but he sat up and reached for it.

  “Bring your water. I’m challenging you to a game of one-on-one.”

  And, suddenly, Tony was an eager kid again, his animosity forgotten in the promise of basketball. Until David said, “One thing you can’t do in Beirut, right?”

  The glower flashed back in an instant. “I can do anything there. Lots of people play basketball.”

  David returned the look and the tone. “At your school? With Bahir?”

  “We do sometimes. We can play anytime we want.” Tony’d flipped back to anger. “They have a league for big kids. Teams. Here’s not so special.”

  Meira stepped between them. “Go on, both of you. Work off your frustration outside, please. With the ball.”

  7

  Meira

  She stood at the open window as the two males in her life pummeled the backboard and the asphalt. David was obviously trying to make up for his tongue-slip, but Tony didn’t look as if his mood had softened, not if those ball slams were any indication.

  She felt the same sick guilt and regret she’d known as a girl when she’d skipped school and her father’d called her to his library. The disappointment on Aba’s face had been harder to bear than any whipping he might have meted out.

  Would her son continue to wear that same betrayed expression? Would he hate his parents with equal fervor to the love he’d felt?

  She and David had told themselves the years of playacting in Lebanon had borne fruit and saved lives. Just last month, David had overheard a conversation between a couple of radical professors who’d thought him too engrossed in filling his plate from the buffet to notice them half-hidden behind palm fronds. They’d mentioned a name and a location, a name David knew. He’d passed this information to his Israeli contacts, who’d uncovered bomb-making supplies at the address, along with blueprints of a Haifa resort and plans for an attack at the height of the tourist season.

  She’d contributed, too, through the art classes she taught and from the university wives she met. Only, the toll those years had taken and would continue to take would not be worth it if it cost them Tony. With each passing year, her worry had grown. It was one thing to lie to an enemy. It was a completely different matter to lie to one’s son. One’s friends.

  Had it only been a week ago Saturday that the apartment door had slammed open, and Tony had stumbled in, bleeding from his nose and a cut on his lip, one eye swollen, with ravages of tears streaking his cheeks? “Bahir. Help Bahir. Downstairs.”

  The boys had been playing on the beach near the apartment when the bullies attacked. From Tony’s description, David determined the teens had been members of Hezbollah from the poverty stricken S
hiite minority.

  David had gotten Bahir home while she’d patched up Tony. And then they’d begun the process that had brought them here.

  They’d completed his enrollment application to the school they’d found, one that was far, far from madmen. It had been past time to take this step, because in spite of attending the American School in Beirut, Tony’d begun to spout liberationist propaganda. “Jews stole the land belonging to the Palestinians,” he’d said one afternoon when she’d been his only audience. “They have no right to be there.”

  It had been all she could do not to weep in front of him. She’d imagined the horror of watching Tony grow to espouse a philosophy meant to destroy his own people. It couldn’t be allowed to happen. And yet, they’d dawdled, thinking they had time. Until the beach incident had upped the ante.

  Enrolling him in a boarding school had always been part of the plan, but not this way. There’d always seemed to be time. Until there wasn’t. But surely, it wouldn’t take him long to find American friends and learn to be an American boy. Instead of a pretend Arab.

  They’d left behind a promising connection David had made through Bahir’s pacifist father, Nasri Ramah, an economics professor at the American University of Beirut where David taught engineering. Nasri had introduced David to a leftist professor sympathetic—and perhaps more than sympathetic—to Iranian-backed Hezbollah, a group determined to see the destruction of Israel. The man might have led David to other plots and other knowledge.

  Whether or not she and David returned to Lebanon would depend on how this time at the lake cottage resolved itself. Tony had to be their number one priority. He should always have been.

  The evening before their flight home, she’d fled to their balcony to breathe the sea air while Tony said goodbye to a bruised and battered Bahir. Through the open door, she’d heard the boys promise eternal friendship, and her heart had ached for them.

  How she longed for a world where boys weren’t threatened and her family in Israel could imagine peace from its neighbors. Where she could be certain that bad guys weren’t still trying to kill her and hers.

  Her son’s voice brought her back to the present and the interaction happening just outside the kitchen window. “Come on, Dad, shoot!” Tony called.

  David tossed the ball, and in it went. He retrieved it easily and made another basket, but then he slowed down, and Tony grabbed the ball from him, dribbled, and made a wild throw.

  “Almost got it,” David said in the rah-rah tone of a cheerleader.

  “Yeah, right.”

  David extended the ball. “Here, try again.”

  “It’s not my turn.” But Tony took it.

  “Let’s just practice. Work on your aim.”

  Tony listened as his father gave him pointers on his stance and his aim in the free throw. After three misses, David said, “Relax. I think you’re trying too hard.”

  Biting his bottom lip, Tony closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at the board and tossed the ball. He was way off.

  Meira had seen him make multiple baskets in a row, but today he could barely seem to hit the backboard, while his father couldn’t seem to miss. Their normally easy-going son looked ready to explode.

  Perhaps she should intervene, break up the tension with a distraction. But, no, David had played basketball with his son since Tony could first hold the ball. They needed to work this out between themselves.

  Turning from the window, she opened the refrigerator, got out hummus, dill pickles, and spinach, then went into the pantry cupboard for the pita bread. She’d spread one sandwich when a screech came from Tony.

  David’s frustrated “What the—what are you doing?” came in response.

  She ran to the back door, pushed it open, and arrived in the yard in time to see Tony dash around to the lakeside with a “Leave me alone” shouted over his shoulder. David plowed his fingers through his hair.

  “What?” she asked.

  David crouched on his haunches. “I keep blowing it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I tried to encourage him, talked about the school. The things he can do next year.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Something ticked him off.” David stood and waved toward the side of the house. “He kicked the ball as hard as he could. I’d better go check on him.”

  She followed, expecting to see Tony on the porch or maybe down at the dock. “Could he have gone inside?” she asked.

  “You check. I’ll head to the dock. See if I can spot him anywhere.”

  Meira opened the door and stood at the entrance, listening. At first, there was only silence, and then the toilet flushed. She returned to the porch and hailed David. “He’s in here.”

  Waving, David continued to the sandy bank of the lake and bent down to retrieve something. When he stood, he carried the basketball under his arm. His frown had intensified.

  She waited by the screen door for him to join her, and they went inside together. David set the ball down on the closet floor.

  “His behavior is unacceptable,” he said.

  “I know. But he probably thinks ours is too.”

  “He has no right to judge us.”

  “David.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and, on a sigh, moved toward her. Drawing her into his arms, he pressed her close. “This hurts.” His voice was ragged. “It just hurts.”

  Her cheek rested against his damp shirt, next to his beating heart, and the thurump-thurump of it adjusted hers to match its rhythm. She could feel it, feel their unity of purpose, of being. “I know,” she whispered as she smoothed her palm up to his neck and to his cheek. “It will be okay. It will.”

  The bathroom door opened, and, sucking in a deep breath, David shifted back. Tony paused uncertainly when he saw them.

  “Let’s eat,” Meira said. “It’s almost ready.” Anything to diffuse the tension.

  Another sigh came from her husband. And then he seemed to get a whiff of himself. “Perhaps a quick wash-up first, before I overwhelm you with my manly odor.”

  “You’re fine,” she said.

  “Sorry, but we’re both rank.” He motioned Tony toward the bathroom. “You first . . . and don’t use all the hot water.”

  Tony’s glance stunned her with its shy hopefulness. He must know he’d overstepped his bounds and probably couldn’t believe he’d been given a pass. Yes, he owed his father an apology, but David would have to be the one to demand it.

  Unless David hoped that it would be offered freely.

  Tony wasn’t a child any longer, even if he still looked younger than his thirteen years. Thirteen, growing, and now confronted with a life change that might make his teenage angst flip into overdrive. And they, instead of helping him navigate these years, seemed to be making a mess of things. With head bowed, she begged the Lord for mercy. For help. For peace in her family and peace in their boy’s soul.

  Five minutes after the pipes had stopped creaking and groaning, she filled the glasses with ice and drinks. Soda was on treat status for Tony because of its caffeinated sugar, but maybe it would counteract all the unpalatable truths they’d been doling out, sweet for sour. She and David preferred tea.

  David slid an arm around her and planted a kiss on her cheek before grabbing a bag of chips and a stack of napkins. “You holding up?”

  “Trying to. You?”

  “Tiptoeing through this.” He nodded toward the tray of drinks and sandwiches. “I’ll get that.”

  He led the way into the living room and set the tray down on the coffee table. Meira followed with plates and chips, taking a comfortable chair opposite the couch.

  Tony stood as if waiting for permission to join them. David didn’t give it. Instead, he watched his son.

  “I’m sorry,” Tony finally said, his head bowed. “I shouldn’t have gotten so mad.”

  “Temper tantrums are never acceptable,” David said, not giving an inch. Then he softened his words., “An
ger in itself is not wrong. Just what you do with it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come. Sit down and have some lunch.” David slid Tony’s drink down the table. “Perhaps we ought to talk about what went wrong out there.”

  “Do we have to?” Tony asked.

  “Seems to me you were too upset to play well. And then you got mad at yourself, more than at me.”

  “I guess.”

  “Fine, we’ll leave it alone for now. You’ve apologized, and I assume that means you’ll try to control your temper.”

  Tony nodded.

  Delighted with both her men, Meira had been putting sandwiches on plates. She extended one to Tony. “You were shooting baskets on your own while I fixed dinner last night, and you got most of them in. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  Tony grinned. “Sometimes Hussam, Bahir’s tutor, takes us to the gym where he plays. He’s on a team.”

  She passed the napkins. “This tutor, is he for religion?”

  “Math. Bahir’s dad wants him to go to Harvard ’cause that’s where he went.”

  “Interesting,” Meira said. “I wonder why his mother never mentioned it.”

  “She wants to keep him home.” Tony reached for a handful of chips and piled them on his plate.

  “Mothers are protective,” David said. “Dads, too, but perhaps not in the same way. Besides, Harvard is a good school.”

  “Maybe we could both go.” Tony’s expression held longing.

  “If it works out that way.” Please no. But she didn’t say that.

  “I suppose it depends on which school meets your needs at the time. Now, before we eat, we must thank God for the food we have received. Tony?” David waited. “This will be new for you, but you need to become accustomed to hearing Hebrew prayers instead of Muslim ones.”

  Tony’s head jerked up. His face closed down.

  “Listen to the words. They are not only beautiful, but also full of meaning.” David waited to begin his prayer until the boy bit his lip and lowered his eyes.

  “Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam hamotzi lehem min ha’aretz. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who brings forth bread from the earth.” David repeated the blessing over the other parts of the meal.