A shadow crossed the dining-room window and moved away. David waited a beat, then dashed to the house, ducked under that same window, and pressed up against the wall, his gun at the ready as he peeked inside.
19
Meira
1983
Meira eased some of the willow’s fronds out of her way. There was something . . . something that didn’t belong, a silhouette hiding in their hedge.
David had dashed out of sight, supposedly toward the house, exposing himself, which he’d only have done if he knew where Abreeq was at that moment. Had one of those kids pushed into the hedge, into that space between two bushes she’d hoped would fill in with new growth? It was the perfect size to hide in, and they’d used it before. She’d seen them dodging through her backyard in a game of hide and seek.
The boys called to one another. The ball thumped on the concrete driveway or the backboard. Occasionally a shot went astray, and someone scurried after it. So, why was one of them—and it had to be one of the older ones—hiding here?
She squinted at the shape.
One of the older ones? The oldest was only twelve. He was small. Whoever had just moved inside the hedge looked more like a teenager.
She couldn’t let a child be caught in the crossfire, or have David’s life be put at risk by a prankster.
She checked her gun. Lord, please let me not have to use it. She didn’t want to have to kill anyone. Still, she set her feet, ready to bolt if David needed her.
And several things happened at once.
The basketball shot over the hedge into their yard. The figure stepped out from its hiding place in the bushes. And the boys shouted that somebody had to get the ball.
The figure was a woman, a woman who now raised her arm as if to take aim at David. Meira screamed. The woman pivoted, jerking her gun in Meira’s direction.
And two shots rang out. She had no idea who, other than the woman, had pulled a trigger. She prayed the other was David.
She was already dashing toward the house, heedless of danger, her gun ready. Her feet slapped dry grass.
O Lord, don’t let David be hurt. Please, I beg of You.
Chaos had escalated by the time she made it to the corner of the house. David lay sprawled on top of the woman. All four boys had climbed through the hedge and were closing in on the figures lying there, surrounding them, just as Abreeq pushed open the screen door and walked out onto the stoop.
Meira backed out of sight as Abreeq waved his gun in the air and shouted in Arabic for the boys to go, get out of there, go home. They just stared at him, open-mouthed.
It would have been amusing if fear hadn’t taken hold of her. Her first thought was to distract Abreeq by getting him to chase her, but those foolish boys might just come, too.
The length of the house stood between her and them. She’d accomplish nothing by running toward the chaos, and she couldn’t risk trying to shoot Abreeq from here. If she missed—and the likelihood of that was too great for her to want to chance it because to take aim properly, she’d have to step away from the house, which would give him time to aim at her—she’d become another target for a man who probably had twice the training she did. Maybe ten times her training because he was bound to have killed before.
Wisdom, please, Adonai. And reinforcements—soon? She sprinted for the front door. She didn’t have her keys, so she could only hope the spare was still hidden under the ceramic frog at the base of her favorite azalea.
It was. Hurrying up the front steps, she slid the key in the lock and opened the door, grateful that David kept the hinges oiled. As she slid off her shoes, the image of David’s baseball bat surfaced. She tiptoed to the hall closet, grabbed the bat, and moved stealthily toward the back of the house.
The door to the yard opened off the kitchen. Tucking her gun in easy reach in her waistband—because she really hoped she wouldn’t have to kill the man—she checked out the dining-room hutch and the archway into the kitchen. A plan had formed. She leaned the bat against the wall, grabbed the large Rose Medallion bowl that decorated the table, and—sparing barely a moment to regret the lovely reproduction piece—shot up another prayer and heaved the bowl against the far wall. It shattered. She hefted the bat and flattened herself out of sight behind the hutch.
The screen door opened and slammed shut, feet hit the linoleum. Meira held her breath as he waited a few heartbeats before creeping forward.
Her pulse sped. She breathed as she’d been taught, carefully in and out, imagining each breath sounded like a roaring hiss, because that’s what she thought she heard.
On he came. Long minutes passed. She imagined him wondering who lay in wait and if that person had a gun.
Was Abreeq at the threshold yet? Ah, a board creaked. He’d hit the hardwood. One more step, please don’t let him look this way . . .
She raised the bat, stepped out, and swung. The bat connected with his outstretched arm and continued to his gut. His gun bounced to the floor, and Abreeq cried out as he bent, stumbling forward and giving Meira time to raise the bat again and bring it down hard on the back of his head. He fell in a heap.
Tires screeched out front, one car and then another, but Meira could only think of David. She ran to the splintered back door. All four boys—what were their names?—had started babbling again and pushing each other. David, her beloved, looked up from where he now straddled an angry and bleeding woman who seemed to be pressing what looked like half of David’s shirt against her shoulder.
“You got him?” David asked her, a smile playing on his lips.
She started the few yards toward him, but tears welled, and she collapsed to the stoop. “I thought he’d shot you.”
“I’m fine, love. I’m grateful you are, too.”
All the children began talking at once when Sheriff Jones and a deputy strode up the driveway. Another deputy, his gun at the ready, came around the other side of the house.
She’d met the sheriff once, at a bake sale for the local school band. She pushed herself to her feet.
He nodded at her. “Mrs. Rassadim.” To David, he said, “And Mr. Rassadim? We got a call that you might need help. Who do you have there?”
David stood, gathering the extra gun and the bullets and handing them to the sheriff. “I’m not sure who she is. She tried to shoot my wife. I shot to stop her. Obviously, my aim failed.”
“His tackle was super,” the oldest boy said. “I was the first one through.” He pointed to the hole between the bushes. “We came to get our ball.”
“And then the bad guy came out of the house,” said one of the middle boys.
“He talked funny.” That was the youngest one. “We didn’t understand him.”
David draped an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him. Speaking to the sheriff, she gave him Abreeq’s name and said, “He tried to get the boys to leave or at least to get out of his way, probably so he could shoot David, but I’m not sure he even realized he was yelling at them in Arabic. He’s inside. I hit him with a baseball bat.”
The sheriff motioned one of the deputies toward the door, but before he could say anything, the woman on the ground kicked a booted foot, obviously in frustration, and called to Meira. “You. You will die. One day, you who killed my brother, will die. That is my promise. Allahu Akbar!” Then she switched to Arabic and peppered the air with curses.
“That’s enough out of you,” Sheriff Jones said. “John-Jay, cuff her and then call for an ambulance.”
Over the curses that spewed from the woman as a deputy restrained her, Meira said, “I only knocked him out. I didn’t kill him.”
“Bah. Not Abreeq. My brother Salim. He is dead because of you.”
“You mean the bomber in Jerusalem? His name was Salim?”
“My brother. He was a brave fighter for our people.”
“Not true. He murdered many, and he died trying to kill again.”
One of the boys ran toward the front to check out a dark gray c
ar that pulled into the driveway. The new arrivals looked like standard-issue movie detectives, decked out in suits and sunglasses.
They flashed their badges at the sheriff. “Agent Howland and Agent Reynolds.”
While the FBI and the locals talked, David drew Meira close. She whispered into his shoulder. “I was so afraid.” Her voice shook. “For all of you.”
“Yeah, well, I had a few bad moments myself.” He released her.
The agents headed into the house, and Sheriff Jones crouched in front of the boys. “Is your dad around, Tommy?” he asked the oldest.
Interesting, Meira thought, that the sheriff hadn’t asked about Cherry.
“Nah. He had to go into town to get Mom and do some shopping. She was gonna have her hair fixed.”
“I’m thinking,” Meira said, addressing the crowd, “that when things calm down around here—maybe tomorrow afternoon—we need to have an ice cream party. In honor of such brave boys.”
Four pairs of eyes lit. “Can we have chocolate with sprinkles?” the little one asked.
“Absolutely,” Meira said. “Chocolate is my favorite.”
“With sprinkles.”
“Definitely with sprinkles.”
The sheriff stood. “I think it’s time you boys got your ball and headed on home. I’ll stop by to see your dad later, hear?”
“Yes, sir,” the one named Tommy said. “We’re not in trouble, are we?”
“Not at all.” He ruffled Tommy’s hair.
Meira felt tears well as she looked at the young faces. Maybe what happened today would get their parents’ attention focused back where it ought to be on their precious boys.
And then the sheriff turned to David. “Mr. Rassadim, I’ve got to ask if you have a permit for that gun of yours.”
20
Meira
Meira paused in her story telling and looked from David to Tony. “I’m tired,” she said. “I think I’d like to quit for an hour or so and take a walk. Would that be okay?”
“Absolutely,” David said. “It’s a gorgeous afternoon, and we could all use a time out.” He turned to Tony. “What about you?”
“I’m not tired.”
“Then why don’t you go for a walk with your mother. I’ve got some phone calls to make.”
“Nah,” Tony said. “Can I use your computer?”
David checked with her. At her shrug, he said, “Sure. For an hour, but that’s all.” But he was speaking to Tony’s back as the boy headed to the small den. “You’re welcome!” he called.
Tony turned and shouted a rueful, “Thanks!”
“He probably feels as if he’s been let out of jail,” Meira said.
“You okay?” David asked as she dug around in the coat closet for the walking shoes she kept for lakeside use.
“Exhausted. Who knew telling a story could be such hard work.” She checked her shoes for bugs and then pulled them on over her socks. “A walk will do me good.”
He bent to kiss her forehead. “See you soon.”
A breeze seemed to be coming from the north, a change from the normal westerlies that might indicate a storm brewing up in Canada, perhaps bringing some much-needed rain. She sniffed clean air with none of the odors she’d grown so used to in the streets of Beirut, where spice scents mingled with sweat and dirt and sometimes even with sewage. There, a wind shift off the sea cleansed the air, brought other smells, more welcome ones.
Here, too, it was quieter. She reveled in the difference: bird chatter as opposed to human cries. Engines revving around the lake were few, and raised voices even fewer.
Her muscles had needed this. The tension of these days had taken a toll on more than just her stomach. She increased her pace as she headed right onto the narrow road that circled the lake. It was only used by residents at this end, residents and their guests and the occasional delivery. Almost everyone received their mail at the small post office in town; it was safer that way for those who didn’t live here full time.
She met only one car. The driver waved but didn’t stop. Most of the homes were set back closer to the lake than the road, so she had the patched macadam to herself and the slap-slap of her soles as she finished a mile, then two, before turning back.
Remembering Virginia, her fear for her baby and her husband, had been hard on her. Telling the whole, reliving it, had taken a toll. Maybe now she could continue, finish the tale, and await her son’s judgement. Maybe now she’d be strong enough to help him through the process—at least for today.
And later, when it was over, perhaps she’d be able to open her paints? Pick up her pencils? Actually create here in this gorgeous place?
David suggested they gather on the porch to enjoy the breeze. “And the view’s better.”
When they were settled, each in one of the Adirondack chairs at the other end of the porch from the swing, he picked up where they’d left off. “The two who’d come after your mother, Abreeq and Salim’s sister—I don’t remember her name, do you?” he turned to ask her.
She shook her head. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard it.
“Anyway, although they were headed to prison,” David said, “we couldn’t be sure they were the only ones who’d come, so we still had to do something.”
Tony shook his head. “I don’t get it. You keep talking about those words they said, all of them, when they tried to kill you.”
“What words?”
“Allahu Akbar, Allah is great. I mean, I’ve heard people saying it all my life, and nobody was murdering anyone else.”
“They’re proclaiming a lot more than ‘Allah is great’,” David said. “They’re actually stating that he is greater than any other god. They’re deceived, and they’ve been taught that all who refuse to follow Islam must be killed. Especially all Jews.”
They were also words that would haunt Meira forever. Each time she heard them, she imagined the knife blade slashing toward her or the gun’s black hole aimed at her, at David. And yet her son needed to see her as a rational woman who based her choices on what was right, not on fears she’d accumulated since that day in 1979.
She took a deep, cleansing breath and said, “Many followers of Islam, especially among the Shia, consider jihad—holy war—an imperative of their religion, a call to destroy all who won’t follow their faith. And it’s not just the Shia who believe the Koran calls them to avenge the death of family members.”
“But you didn’t kill anyone.” Tony’s voice and his face showed the worry he carried, a worry they’d handed him on a platter. A silver one.
This parenting business was heartbreaking.
“No, I didn’t,” she said. “But angry people aren’t always reasonable. And those who have been taught hatred from an early age lose the power to discern right from wrong. That’s why so many who fled Israel in the late forties have joined groups like Al Fatah and the Popular Front.”
“Weren’t they forced to leave their homes? That’s what Bahir’s tutor said. That the Jews knocked on their doors with guns and promised they’d shoot everyone who didn’t go away. Then the Jews took their houses.”
“That’s not what happened,” Meira said. “It is what some of the Palestinians—the ones who left—told themselves and their children when they found themselves in camps. Camps they’re still in. Most fled because their leaders, including the Mufti of Jerusalem, told them to go. There was a huge power struggle for control of the land by Arab leaders, especially between the then King of Jordan, Abdullah I, and the Mufti.”
“The camps are horrible places. I’ve seen pictures,” Tony said.
“They are. And no one in power in Jordan, Syria, or Lebanon tried to resettle the refugees. Instead, they used them for their own political gain.”
“Or what they thought would be their gain,” David said.
Tony leaned forward in his chair and glanced quickly from one parent to the other. “Bahir’s tutor said we should make war against Israel so the people could leave the ca
mps and go home.”
“Bloodshed is never the answer,” David said. “We can’t let it be the answer.”
“That’s why you do what you do?”
“That’s it,” his father said. “That and to keep you and your mom safe.”
“But I still don’t get why you had to lie to me. And why we couldn’t just be normal people.”
“Because normal was stolen from us the moment I witnessed the bombing,” Meira said. “Because a crazy man’s family wanted revenge for something I didn’t cause.”
“And we couldn’t be sure it would ever end. Two more were in jail, but what about others? And what about their neighbors and friends, others who’d sworn vengeance on Jews? We were Jews.”
“I’ve gotta go pee,” Tony said, standing. “But I want to know what happened next.”
1983
Eli had shown up soon after the FBI agents. Meira left them to talk—and David to sweep up the broken vase—while she went to pick up the baby.
When they finally got rid of law enforcement, Meira ordered pizza and David and Eli unloaded the car. They purposefully didn’t discuss the afternoon’s events until she’d fed Tony and put him down for the night. Poor baby needed another dose of painkiller to help him settle.
“I never want to go through that again,” Meira said, taking a seat next to David and drawing his hand into her lap. “Whatever it takes. And I want my baby protected.”
“Whatever it takes.” David squeezed her hand.
Eli, in the obnoxiously optimistic manner of someone who’d been certain of getting his way, opened his briefcase and passed over the paperwork, the plan of action, and two new passports. And where, David wanted to know, had he gotten the photographs for those?
Eli just laughed, ignoring the question. “As far as your employers here are concerned, you’ll be leaving for family reasons.” He also ignored David’s scowl. “You have your masters in engineering. You need your PhD. MIT is willing to take you.”
From Fire Into Fire Page 10