TIKVAH WAS ON her way to Kibbutz Zohar where she was bringing Cane to the vet for a check-up. The vet had said to bring the dog back to make sure she was recovering well. Now that she knew about Marie, who had lived on Kibbutz Zohar, she left home a bit earlier than she needed so that she could stop first in the kibbutz’s front office, to find out more about her. Perhaps someone there even knew where she was now. Ruby would probably like to speak to her if she was still alive. And Tikvah had to admit, she too was curious as to what had happened to Marie. She felt a connection to the story.
Tikvah had sat right on that very same rock beneath the Tree of Hope, exactly where the story of Jamal and Marie had ended—at least according to what Ruby had shared of his diary. Did they manage to meet again after the Jewish State was declared? Did they ever consummate their love? How did Jamal get her rosary? Jamal did come back after the fighting ended. Maybe he had returned to search for her. Ruby told Tikvah that she had known nothing about her father’s first love, and that he had married Ruby’s mother soon after the Nakba. Did he come back only to find Marie was gone? Where was he when the village was attacked? Did his brothers fight the Haganah? What had Marie done after the village was destroyed? Where was she now? Maybe she was still here, on the kibbutz. The thought sent shivers through Tikvah’s body, in addition to her regular pins and needles.
Tikvah parked her pickup truck in the lot near the main kibbutz offices and let Cane out the back door. They walked on the narrow path to the front office, which was a no-frills stucco structure with a tin roof, exposed mailbox cubbyholes in front, and a “This is NOT an Information Booth” sign on the door. Kibbutznikim, like moshavnikim, were not known for their friendly demeanor. Although she also knew that once she got past that exterior and introduced herself, they would offer whatever help they could.
Tikvah tied Cane’s leash to a shady tree next to the office. “I’ll be right back,” she told the dog, who lay down to rest.
“Good afternoon,” Tikvah said to the woman with short gray hair and glasses who was sitting at the desk.
“Good afternoon. Do you want something?”
Tikvah cleared her throat. “Yes. I came to ask about a woman who lived here on the kibbutz in 1948. Her name was Marie. I’m wondering if she’s still here. And if not, where she went. Or if she’s even still alive.”
The woman stood. “Do you have a family name?”
Tikvah shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
The woman grunted, walked over to a shelf, and pulled down a large binder. She placed it on the desk with a thump and opened it. She licked her finger and flipped through the pages in the binder. “This is the list of members in 1948. I don’t see any Marie here. See for yourself,” she said, sliding the binder across her desk towards Tikvah.
“Perhaps she went by a different name, a Hebrew one, on the kibbutz?”
“That’s likely, but it won’t help me find her here on the roster unless you have that name. There’s a Meirav here. And a Miryam. Meira, too. And Michal. But we have no way of knowing if any of these were her.”
“Yes, of course not.” Tikvah sighed. “Maybe I could speak to one of the old kibbutz members who was around then. Can you tell me who still lives here from that time?”
“Well, I’d have to ask them first before I gave you their names. There are a few. But they’re all survivors and may not want to discuss the past. Why don’t you give me your number.”
The woman handed Tikvah a pen and post-it, and Tikvah wrote down her cell phone number and her house number on the colored paper square. The woman stuck the note on her computer screen and went back to her work. Tikvah understood she had gotten what she could from the woman. She hoped one of those survivors would be willing to speak to her. If they were anything like her parents, the chances of that were not good.
Tikvah pictured her mother sitting in front of the window in her room in the facility where Tikvah had moved her during her last visit about ten years before. Perhaps she was knitting or working on a needle point. Perhaps she was just staring out of the window, worn down and aged beyond her seventy-two years. Her mother had trauma she had never been willing to address. Instead she kept it inside and let it eat away at her sanity, bit by bit. Much more so since her husband’s passing.
Tikvah’s father had always been the one to call, so she was worried that day when the phone rang and she heard her mother’s voice on the other end. Her mother told her that her father was sick. It was just a virus. Serious enough to put him in the hospital, but nothing she should be concerned about. Certainly nothing to make her jump on a plane. When Tikvah called after that, it was clear her father had not returned to his former self. On the phone, he sounded weak, like he was fading. Tikvah told him she wanted to come visit, but he said he preferred she not come. He did not want her to see him this way, he said. Tikvah did not like the sound of that. She looked into flights; but before she could book anything, he was already gone.
She flew there for the funeral and asked her mother if she would consider going back with her to Israel—despite her negativity when Tikvah had made the move so many years before. Perhaps she had softened, become less stubborn and resentful. Perhaps her mother could forgive her and compromise her principles—which Tikvah did not even understand—so as not to be alone. Tikvah and Alon had already moved to Sapir by then, so there was plenty of room. She could even live in one of the cabins, have her own space. But her mother adamantly refused. Within months, her mother’s condition went dramatically downhill. Without Tikvah’s father around to make sure she was taking care of herself, she could no longer function. When a neighbor called to say her mother had been found wandering the neighborhood streets aimlessly at night, Tikvah got back on a plane.
“Either I’ll return with her,” she had told Alon, “or I’ll find her a place she can live out the rest of her days safely. But she can’t stay in that house by herself.”
Again, her mother refused to even discuss the option of coming to live with Tikvah and Alon on the moshav. So Tikvah found her a facility—a rest home for the moderately mentally ill—where she could have her own room but could eat meals in the dining hall, do activities in the lounge, and where there were nurses on duty twenty-four hours a day to make sure she took her medication, ate, and left her room. But there were also guards at the doors to make sure no one wandered off. And that was where she still was to this day. Her mother had gone willingly, saying it was her fate to die in an institution. Tikvah had not known what that meant—had her mother spent time in an institution at some point during or after she was hidden during the war?—but her mother had turned her face to the wall. And that was the last word Tikvah had heard from her mouth.
Not long after Tikvah’s arrival back home, she collapsed on the kitchen floor and was diagnosed with MS. She was afraid to travel and became absorbed in her own ailment, in addition to Alon’s, and did not have the energy to deal with her mother’s as well. Her mother was thousands of miles away, and she was being taken care of. It was not Tikvah’s fault her mother was so alone. She had brought it upon herself. Tikvah called the rest home once a week, but her mother refused to speak to her, and there was a part of Tikvah that was not sorry about that. She did not want to tell her mother about her illness, and she was weary from years of dealing with her mother’s depression and bitterness. Things were better this way.
WHEN TIKVAH SET out with Cane early the next morning, she did not turn right and she did not walk through the fence. She went to the forest at the edge of the moshav. She was going to talk to the nuns.
The convent was a bit of a hike into the forest, Tikvah knew, although she had never gone there before. No one from her moshav did. The nuns lived a reclusive existence, so much so that the moshavnikim often forgot they were there.
As Tikvah approached the convent grounds, she saw a sign:
PLEASE RESPECT OUR SILENCE. WE ARE PRAYING FOR YOU.
Tikvah wondered to whom “you” was referring. The
Jews? The Muslims? The Protestants? Maybe the nuns were praying for everyone. And if they were in silence, would they even speak to her at all? Would it be disrespectful for her to ask them to? She had come this far, though, and she wanted to know if they could tell her more about Marie. The nuns must have seen Marie and Jamal during those months they had been meeting in the chapel. If Marie had stopped coming, perhaps they could tell her when. Maybe she had come back and spoken to the nuns, told them where she was going. Or perhaps Marie had even decided to fulfill her original dream of becoming a nun, and joined the order. Perhaps she had remained, living right there in the forest so close to Jamal, without either of them knowing it.
The more Tikvah thought about Marie, she understood that she wanted to find out more about her. The idea that the rosary of this woman had been inside her house for all of these years, made her feel a connection—even if she could not explain it rationally. Which was why she had taken the rosary with her this morning on her walk with Cane and headed to the convent.
Another sign a few meters down the path explained the history of the convent, which matched what she already knew from Ruby and the book in the library. The sign went on to explain that the forest had been planted around the convent in 1948, after the Arab-Jewish war, and since then, the nuns were in silence, praying for peace among the three Abrahamic faiths on this land. It will take more than their prayers, Tikvah thought.
Tikvah approached the compound gate. A sign there read, “Sisters of Mary: Enter in Peace.” Assuming it would not be appropriate to bring Cane any further, Tikvah tied her to the gate.
“I won’t be long,” she whispered into the dog’s ear, and Cane lay down to rest.
It was the middle of September, but still hot, as the heat wave had not yet broken. Tikvah opened the latch and walked through. She knocked on the door and waited. A minute or two later, a pair of round ebony eyes looked at her through a peep hole in the door. The door opened and a young nun in full habit stood before her. Her skin was smooth and her smile sweet and friendly. She had a peaceful, cheery aura about her. Perhaps there was something beneficial to shutting yourself away from society.
“How can I help you?” the nun asked.
“I would like to speak to you. Is that okay? I mean, considering the sign out front.”
“Yes. I am on reception duty today. There is always someone appointed to receive visitors. Part of our mission is to spread peace to others. So it is not a total silence. More about speaking only when necessary and using the time in between for contemplation and prayer.”
“I see.” Tikvah considered her own life. It did not sound so different. She did not spend time in prayer—although that prostration in the forest with Ruby had been so powerful she had promised herself she would try to repeat it someday soon—but she did spend time in contemplation. And she did not have so much opportunity or reason to talk, aside from receiving guests, like this nun was doing now. But she did not mind that at all. She appreciated silence. She did not need the distraction of noise or chatter in her life.
“What did you want to speak to me about?”
Tikvah took the rosary out of her pocket. “I was wondering about a pendant I found, on this rosary. But it says on it Sisters of the Cross, not Sisters of Mary. So maybe I have come to the wrong place.”
“Well, there are a lot of orders. Sisters of the Cross are in Europe, not here.”
“Yes, the writing on the pendant is in French,” she said, showing the rosary to the nun.
The nun examined the cross pendant. “There are Sisters of the Cross in France. Belgium, too.”
“Yes. It belonged to a woman who had been hidden in a convent during the war. That much I know.”
“Well, I know the Sisters of the Cross hid Jewish children during the war. So that makes sense. So how can I help you?”
“I’m wondering if there are any nuns still living here from back in 1948.”
The nun’s expression was pensive. “Wait here. Let me bring Mother Superior. She has been here the longest. Over fifty years. Although of course she was just a novice back then.”
A few minutes later, the young nun returned with an older nun. She looked to be around seventy years old, although Tikvah could not see if her hair was gray beneath her habit, which framed her delicate features and striking blue eyes. Tikvah guessed she had been quite a beauty when she was young, as she still was now, and she remembered Jamal’s words from his diary about how he doubted Marie would make such a good nun with her looks.
“Sister Monica says you wanted to ask me about a rosary.”
Tikvah was surprised that the mother superior spoke to her in Hebrew. But then again, if she had lived here for fifty years, it would make sense that she would have learned the language—even if she was a recluse.
“Yes. Please. If you can help. I found the rosary in my house. I live on Moshav Sapir. I traced it back to a woman who lived on Kibbutz Zohar in 1948. It seems she used to come here, to sit in the chapel. I’m trying to find her.”
The older nun’s eyes brightened. “It was a long time ago, but the memories are clear.” There was a trace of a French accent in her Hebrew.
“You knew her?”
“You could say that.”
“What do you mean?”
The nun took in a breath, then let it out. “Those were chaotic times. So much confusion and fighting. Our chapel has always been open to anyone who wants to sit with God. A place of refuge.”
“Yes. She used to come here for that very reason.”
The mother superior nodded knowingly. “A man from one of the local villages came, too.”
“Yes. His name was Jamal.”
A surprised expression spread across the nun’s face. “How do you know?” She looked more carefully at Tikvah.
“I know his daughter,” Tikvah answered.
“His daughter?” The mother superior’s blue eyes opened wide.
“Yes. He married a woman from Bir al-Demue. They had ten children.”
“Well, I guess it does make sense. People move on.” There was a wistfulness in the older nun’s voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they would leave together. I was a young romantic back then. They were in love. At least I assumed they were.”
“So what happened to them? To her? Do you know?”
The nun stood up straight and gestured dismissively. “Well, as I said, it was a long time ago, and God has His plans that do not always fit with ours.”
“What do you mean?”
“They stopped coming. Then she came here one day asking to speak to the mother superior who was here back then.”
“What do you mean? She came into the convent one day, not just the church?” Tikvah’s intuition to come here had been correct. Perhaps this nun knew where Marie had gone.
“Yes.” The old nun closed her eyes as if to help her recreate the scene in her head. “There was a lot of fighting in the area. The village of Yakut al-Jalil had just been captured. People were fleeing.” She opened her eyes and looked at Tikvah. “I assumed he fled, too. Or had been killed, like many other young men in the village were.”
“No, he wasn’t killed. He fled to Lebanon but came back after the fighting ended. So she came here? Why?”
She shook her head, slowly. “I don’t really know. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”
Tikvah thanked the nuns and left, fingering the beads on the rosary as she walked home. Her phone rang as she and Cane neared the front gate of the moshav. It was a number she did not recognize. Her battery was low, but she answered, keeping her eyes on Cane as she walked so she could put the dog back on her leash when they crossed through the gate. Perhaps it was one of those elderly kibbutznikim calling already.
“This is Meira Yanai, from Kibbutz Zohar,” came a no-nonsense raspy voice in Hebrew, into Tikvah’s ear. The woman sounded like many older Israelis Tikvah knew. The result of a mix of cigarette smoking, harsh living conditions,
and the mentality that if one does not assert oneself, those around you will take advantage. “I was told to call you. I was here on the kibbutz in 1948. How can I help you?”
Tikvah took a deep breath. Meira. That sounded like Marie. Maybe this was her. “I was wondering about a woman named Marie who lived on Kibbutz Zohar in 1948.” She paused, giving the woman time to react, but she didn’t, so she went on. “Did you know her?”
There was a long silence. Tikvah held her breath until the woman spoke. “Well, let me see. Tell me more about her.”
“She spoke French. She was a survivor. She was hidden in a convent. That much I know. And she had blonde hair.”
There was another silence, and Tikvah sensed the woman was smoking a cigarette on the other end. “I do remember someone. She didn’t talk much. I don’t think she fit in very well.”
Tikvah let out her breath. So this was not Marie, but perhaps this woman could at least tell her where Marie had gone. “Yes? What happened to her?”
“She left the kibbutz, which didn’t surprise anyone. She was odd. Although I guess we all were misfits in one way or another.” The woman laughed—a deep cackle from down in her throat—at her own joke. “I think her name was Miryam. Yes. It is coming back to me now. That was her name. Perhaps your Marie went by the Hebrew name Miryam? My name was Marcelle before I came here.”
Now that Tikvah thought about it, she remembered that Miryam was the Hebrew name for Mary. Marie in French. Miriam in English. In Arabic it was Maryam. Jamal had referred to Mother Mary as Maryam in his diary. “Yes, that must be her. Where did she go? Is she still living in Israel?”
“I have no idea, motek. We were not very friendly. I didn’t keep up with her. I don’t even know where she went. I think she left in a hurry. This was 1948. There was no goodbye party, if you know what I mean.” Again, the woman laughed, amusing herself. “Why do you want to find her? Is she a lost relative or something?”
Tikvah sighed. “No. I just heard about her and wondered what happened to her, that’s all. I don’t have a familial connection. I’m just curious. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
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