Apeirogon

by Colum McCann

  The Sports Official again calls for Wolfgang, but there is no reply.

  APPARATCHIK TWO

  You gentiles have hearts of stone. You love humiliating us.

  APPARATCHIK ONE

  Calm down, Feldermaus.

  APPARATCHIK TWO

  I should calm down? The dog should calm down. How are you not ashamed? You should be ashamed. Did you not see Schindler’s List? All the televisions of the world watching us! You don’t care! Haven’t the Jewish people suffered enough? Haven’t the Jewish people suffered enough?!!!

  APPARATCHIK ONE

  Relax, Feldermaus, don’t waste your breath.

  APPARATCHIK TWO:

  Did we ask for a medal? To win? All we ask for is nine meters. Why does he enjoy humiliating us?

  He grabs the Sports Official’s starting gun and puts it to his neck.

  APPARATCHIK TWO

  Come on, finish the work, I’m a Jew too, finish the work, come on, come on!

  APPARATCHIK ONE

  Stop, Feldermaus, stop!

  APPARATCHIK TWO

  You technocrat. Eichmann!

  The Sports Official takes a deep breath and gestures with his head for the Israeli Athlete to go forward. The Israeli Athlete in Lane Six sheepishly picks up his running block.

  ATHLETE

  (To other runners.) I’m sorry, guys.

  As the Apparatchiks watch the Athlete move forward, they shake the Sports Official’s hand.

  APPARATCHIK TWO

  The Jewish people thank you very much, you are a great man.

  APPARATCHIK ONE

  (To Athlete.) More, more, take more. Stop! Not too much! (To Sports Official.) He’s a good boy. You are a great man, thank you very much, thank you very much.

  APPARATCHIK TWO

  I wish you a kosher Passover. Thank you.

  APPARATCHIK ONE

  After this we will take your details and build a big tree in your name on the Hasidic Boulevard, University, in Jerusalem!

  SPORTS OFFICIAL

  (Speaking for the first time.)

  Yes! Thank you. Thank you!

  APPARATCHIK ONE

  Uh, just a small thing. If it’s not too much. Before you…(about starting gun) “Boom boom”…just give him a little with the eye. So he can be prepared.

  SPORTS OFFICIAL

  With the eye?

  APPARATCHIK ONE

  He’s a good boy.

  APPARATCHIK TWO

  A hint.

  SPORTS OFFICIAL

  A hint! Yes. Good.

  APPARATCHIK ONE

  He’s a good boy.

  SPORTS OFFICIAL

  Good, good…Shalom!

  APPARATCHIK ONE/TWO

  Shalom, shalom, thank you.

  SPORTS OFFICIAL

  Shalom, shalom…On your marks! Get set!

  (Raises starting gun and shoots.)

  Go!

  117

  Their favorite shot in the skit was the final one where the Israeli athlete, given a head start of seven or eight meters, runs to the first hurdle, puts his hand on the crossbar and attempts, very gingerly, to step over.

  116

  After the segment aired on Channel 2 in the 1990s, the author of the script, Etgar Keret, was labeled a self-hating Jew and an anti-Semite by a well-known Israeli ethics philosopher, Assa Kasher.

  Kasher had—years before—helped develop the IDF’s code of ethics, enshrining the idea that it was the Most Moral Army in the World.

  115

  On the Wall near Qalandia checkpoint: THE WORLD’S MOST MORAL ARMY.

  114

  Six weeks before Abir died, Bassam penciled her height on the door of their apartment in Anata: he struck a single dark mark halfway between the doorknob and the keyhole.

  Until the day they moved, neither Bassam nor Salwa painted over the mark. Their other children grew up above it.

  Bassam darkened the single strike with pencil every year on her birthday.

  113

  Araab was three years older than Abir; Areen, two years older; Muhammad, one year younger; Ahmed, two years younger. Hiba, the youngest of all, by three years, was most like Abir.

  112

  Even nowadays, when he passes through the unmarked doorways of his home in Jericho, Bassam feels that the unwritten mark somehow touches him in the midpoint of his chest.

  111

  He paced the corridor. The officials in the hospital had refused an autopsy. It was not necessary, they said. It was clearly blunt force trauma, a splintering of bone in the posterior casing of the skull, the bone itself penetrating the brain. They had X-rays they could give him. The official reports of the doctors. Blood tests. Cardiograms. The results could be notarized if he liked. They addressed him formally. Even bowed slightly to him. They understood his pain, they said. They wanted to relieve any burden he was feeling. But an autopsy would be complicated. They would need official permission. There were a series of things to consider. These decisions would take time. There were official channels to go through.

  Bassam insisted again on an autopsy. The officials stepped away to make phone calls. The clock hands on the wall turned. They came back, their ties more firmly mounted to their chins. Could he explain again why exactly he needed an autopsy? Bassam could feel the blood move to his face. He had thought about it for the previous two days, he said, and he was going to bring criminal charges. Against whom? they asked. Against the State, he said. They paused a moment, tugged the ends of their white coats. They were sterner now in their politeness, and yet there was also something in them that aligned with him. Yes, they said, something has gone astray, there is quite possibly blame to be apportioned, but criminal charges, Mister Aramin, really? Yes, I’m sure, he said. We’re just not convinced that’s the right path. It’s not a path, it’s a fact. We apologize, they said, but we haven’t got the power to order an autopsy. As a parent, he said, I have the right to demand one. We have made several phone calls to our superiors, they said, and our requests have been denied, but you can still have access to all the records, all the information you might need is there. No, he said, I need an official autopsy. They fidgeted. We’re sorry, we have gone through all the channels, we have orders.

  He could tell from the way their eyes flicked about that there was something more going on: already the IDF had released a statement claiming that no shots had been fired from the patrol, that there had been rioting in the area, and that Abir had most likely been hit by a stone thrown by Palestinian rioters.

  The officials understood perfectly well, they said, but if he wanted an autopsy he would have to pay for it himself. It could not be state-ordered. It would cost many thousands of shekels. He would be better off relying on the records.

  —Okay, said Bassam, I’ll pay for it.

  110

  The autopsy cost six thousand eight hundred shekels. It was paid for immediately after a whip-round in the hospital among those waiting alongside him: Rami, Alon, Suleiman, Dina, Muhammad, Robi, Yehuda, Avi and Yitzak.

  109

  When the autopsy was finished he was given her belongings in a sealed plastic bag. Her nightdress had been carefully folded. Her school clothes, too, were neatly placed. At the bottom of the bag were the two patent leather shoes, one slightly scuffed from where it had skidded on the ground.

  108

  The criminal case was thrown out almost immediately: lack of sufficient evidence. It didn’t surprise him. He had felt all along it would happen this way. The small press corps met outside the courthouse on a sunny Thursday afternoon. Bassam wore a suit and tie.

  —I will bring it now to civil court, he said.

 
107

  Six thousand eight hundred shekels in 2007: one thousand five hundred and seventy dollars.

  106

  Halfway through the case the judge called for a reenactment. She wanted everyone involved to go to Anata to see if they could figure out what had happened, and how.

  A hum rose in the court. The defense team immediately lodged an objection: there were issues of safety here, procedure, court jurisdiction, but the judge waved their arguments away.

  —We will convene in Anata, she said.

  The convoy drove out from West Jerusalem on a Thursday morning. Streets were cordoned off. Several jeeps stood idling. A helicopter hovered above, making a loud dragonfly of itself.

  The day was overcast. A blanket of warmth lay over the whole town. The wind was shrapneled with dust.

  Bassam arrived early. He watched as the judge got out of her car. She wore a modest dress that covered her arms and knees. She reached in her handbag for a headscarf, tied it deftly in a knot beneath her chin. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked around. It was possibly the first time she had ever been to Anata: the houses high on the hill, the ramshackle apartments below, the garages, the discarded tires, the two-lane road, the roundabout, the boarded-up shops, the broken concrete barriers, the dented signposts, the kids skipping their way to school, the crossing guard in her hijab.

  The judge turned her face from the wind, dug in her handbag for a pair of sunglasses, donned them, then strode to the spot where Abir had fallen. She looked down at the ground and nodded, ordered a photograph, then stepped back to the corner. She told the court clerk to count out the steps and then beckoned the Commander of the Border Police unit.

  —Where’s the graveyard?

  —Excuse me?

  —The one you were coming from.

  —Sorry?

  —In your testimony.

  —Just over there, Your Honor.

  —Around the corner?

  In response, the Commander had no response. The judge gazed up at the apartment building between the graveyard and the death spot. She penciled something in a small red notebook.

  —Let me see the graveyard.

  —I don’t think that’s a good idea, Your Honor.

  —These are my proceedings, Commander.

  His face reddened. He summoned the soldiers. They formed a ring around the judge and walked her to the corner. She halted the group underneath the tall graveyard wall.

  —They were throwing stones from here?

  —Yes.

  —They’ve come a long way, these Arabs.

  —Excuse me? said the Commander.

  —Quite a feat. Throwing stones around a corner.

  —With all due respect, Your Honor, they could have been firing from several angles.

  —I see.

  —You have to understand, Your Honor, these are combat conditions. We are constantly under attack. There can be stones coming from anywhere. The top of the roof even. We have to have eyes in the backs of our heads.

  —She was ten years old, Commander.

  She turned on her heel and walked back towards the corner. The soldiers followed. She strode forward again to the spot where Abir had been shot: Here?

  —Yes. I suppose, said the Commander. About here. Maybe.

  —I need to see a jeep.

  —Your Honor?

  —I want to see the inside of a jeep.

  —Yes, Your Honor.

  A call went over the radio and a jeep pulled up from the roundabout. It was shepherded in by two other jeeps. The judge stepped towards the middle vehicle, hitched her dress, climbed in.

  —Around the corner, she said to the driver.

  A quick hard wind dusted the side of the jeep. Bassam was sure he could hear every grain of sand hit. The vehicle rounded the corner, then returned and reversed once more. The back flap opened and then it was closed again.

  A small gasp went around the watchers when the barrel of a gun emerged from the small square hole.

  The door closed and opened again. It seemed to Bassam that everything had to be repeated.

  When the judge stepped out of the jeep, her dress rose slightly. She pulled it down tight on her knees, walked once again to the spot where Abir had fallen.

  She paused a moment, lifted her sunglasses, and looked down.

  —Okay, we will reconvene in Jerusalem.

  105

  Y.A. appeared early. He was twenty-three years old, but his hair was already beginning to thin, a scattered peninsula on the crown of his head. He wore a grey jacket, a rumpled blue shirt and a yellow tie that seemed much too bright. His eyes were quick, but he kept them low to the floor. He was shadowed by a lawyer who held a briefcase across his midriff as if to protect himself from a blow. Y.A. scrunched against the wall. He looked like a man who would have given anything to disappear into the brickwork. He had said publicly, months before, that he would attend the trial. He could not get out of it now. He would, he said, be vindicated. His lawyer sat next to him and placed the briefcase down. They were joined by two women who sat immediately behind them. It was as if, in some chess game, Y.A. had made himself into the corner rook: he would remain there, he would never be castled. He folded his hands in his lap, gazed forward as the press seats filled.

  A half-dozen reporters unfurled their notebooks. A number of law students sat in the back rows. Bassam’s supporters filled the other seats: they were mostly Israelis. Some of them held pictures of Abir at their chests. They rose to their feet when the judge came in. She interlocked her fingers, made a pyramid of her hands. She glanced at Bassam, briefly caught his eye. He hadn’t expected that. She leaned forward, spoke slowly.

  The court is of the opinion. We have come to the decision. We have weighed the varied testimonies. Abir Aramin was a resident of the Jerusalem municipality. We have decided. The responsibility of the State of Israel. It has been determined.

  Gasps rose from the press gallery. The state’s lawyers remained seated. Bassam’s supporters erupted in applause. He turned and bowed his head, pleaded with them to be quiet. He glanced across at Y.A. The soldier stared straight ahead. He might yet have been staring through a small four-inch hole in the rear door of the jeep. Rat tat tat. A teenager still. In a video game.

  Bassam noticed that Y.A. had nodded when the verdict came. As if he knew. As if he had expected it. As if he had been forewarned.

  The compensation was yet to be determined. Still, the State would have to pay for loss of years, negligence, burial expenses. The gate in the dock was opened. Y.A. was hustled to the back of the court, shadowed by his lawyer. He seemed to pause a moment at the door and then the small coin of his youthful baldness disappeared into the shadows. Shouts and cheers skittered around the court. An officer called for calm. There were handshakes for Bassam, backslaps, smiles. He could hardly stand. He needed to take a breath. The way to the rear of the court was blocked. All around him his supporters carried the photo of his daughter. Here she was again, Abir, multiple versions of her, yet always the same, his gone daughter. Someone touched his elbow. Congratulations, brother. A landmark. Can you believe it? He hung his head. It seemed that the case had happened to someone other than himself, someone out there hovering in a different world. He didn’t feel that he had won anything at all. There had been no criminal charges, no official admission of guilt. He pushed his way out of the courtroom. He turned a corner into another, it was all corners, always corners. Around another corner he saw men filing out from the bathroom. He eased his way past. He was not surprised to see Y.A. standing at the mirror, still in a huddle with his lawyer. Y.A. looked up at him. Something penitent and fearful in his eyes. The lawyer tried to move him aside, but Y.A. stayed. Bassam had rehearsed it in his head, in Hebrew, a hundred times.

  —You’re
the victim here. Not me.

  104

  A decade after the bombing the family of Yael Botvin, the fourteen-year-old blown up alongside Smadar, brought a lawsuit in the Washington, D.C., District Court.

  The family sought damages from the Islamic Republic of Iran, the Iranian Ministry of Information and Security, and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, who they said were collectively responsible for the Hamas attack. The lawsuit alleged that the suicide bombing was approved at the very highest levels of Iranian government, and argued that Yael, as a U.S. citizen, could have her case adjudicated under United States law.

  In her testimony Yael’s mother, Julie, said that one of the most difficult things of all was watching Yael’s friends moving on with their lives, getting married and having babies.

  103

  In 2012, the Botvin estate was awarded $1.7 million.

  102

  The Islamic Republic of Iran never paid.

  101

  Every day, outside the courthouse, Rami gathered with Bassam and his supporters. Each time a vehicle went through the gates they held giant pictures of Abir high in the air.

  100

  Several newspaper articles were published in Israel and the United States deploring the judge’s decision in the aftermath of the Aramin case. No civil proceedings should ever be allowed in such a military situation, they said. The criminal courts had already indicated that there was a lack of sufficient evidence. Why should the State have to shoulder the burden? It had been pointed out in court that it was possible that the child had been hit by a rock thrown by rioters and, even if she had been struck by a stray rubber bullet, an unlikely scenario, the Commander had testified that they were under relentless attack. The legal decision could, in the future, endanger the lives of Israeli soldiers forced to make crucial split-second decisions in the interests of security. If made to hesitate, they could endanger not only themselves but their fellow soldiers and indeed citizens. Furthermore, and most alarming, Bassam Aramin was a convicted terrorist. He had spent seven years in prison for a series of hand grenade attacks. He belonged to the Fatah faction, which he continued to support. One million shekels would, no doubt, go a long way towards another terrorist venture and who could know what he was planning now.