Murder Under the Bridge

by Kate Raphael

  “That must be scary for you,” she said.

  “It had nothing to do with me.” Malkah sounded petulant. “I think my father is afraid.”

  They had reached the little shop where Chloe had gotten off the bus. Malkah picked out two of the sugar cones filled with vanilla ice cream and covered with chocolate.

  “These are my favorite,” Chloe said. She paid for them and they sat on a bench outside the shop to eat them.

  “Why would your father be afraid?” Chloe asked. She tried to make it sound totally unimportant.

  “I don’t know. But I heard him tell my Uncle Israel on the telephone that the police took something out of our house.”

  “Who is your Uncle Israel?”

  “Israel Wilensky. He is not my real uncle, he is my father’s friend. He is a very famous war hero.”

  “Does he live here in Elkana?” Hopefully Malkah wouldn’t wonder why she was so interested in people she didn’t know.

  “He lives in Tel Aviv. And he has a big company in Rosh HaAyin.”

  Malkah’s eyes shifted to something in the distance. Chloe couldn’t tell what had caught her attention, but the girl wolfed down the rest of her ice cream cone and stood up.

  “They had a fight,” she said. She threw her wrapping in the garbage can.

  “Who?” Chloe asked. Her half-eaten cone was melting on her hand, but it didn’t seem appropriate to lick it off. “Your uncle and your father?”

  Malkah shook her head violently. “My uncle and Nadya,” she said. “I have to go.”

  She took off before Chloe could even say goodbye.

  * * *

  There was no internet at Jaber’s house, so Chloe went to the internet café to find out about Wilensky. Amid the smoke and noise of young men playing computer games, she learned that Colonel Israel Wilensky was indeed a famous air force commander. Three years ago, he had been involved in an incident involving a missile attack in Jenin Camp, which killed three leading members of Hamas and five members of their families. Dozens of Palestinians had been injured. Wilensky and his men said that the militants had shot at them, and that the civilians had been killed by Palestinians in the crossfire. Palestinians said that they had all been civilians, blown up while coming back from the store with groceries. There were pictures, taken by a Palestinian photographer for one of the wire services, of the groceries scattered all over the ground, interlaced with blood and body parts.

  It was a well-known incident, because it had occurred during what was known as the “Jenin Camp Massacre” of 2002 (official Israeli documents called it “The Battle of Jenin”). Over fifty people, mostly civilians, had been killed during the invasion of the refugee camp, and there was a small-scale international outcry about that. In response, the Israeli Knesset had convened a commission. That commission had investigated Colonel Wilensky and his troops and concluded that there had been no wrongdoing. A few months after the investigation concluded, Wilensky had resigned his position at the defense ministry, but Chloe couldn’t tell if the two things were connected. Officially, the resignation was because he had a share in a corporation that sold construction materials, and he decided to take a lucrative, hands-on role in the company. Online scuttlebutt was that he had had a fight with the defense minister, over his interest in the man’s daughter. That was interesting to Chloe, because the daughter, Lilith, was nineteen, as was Nadya. Colonel Wilensky was forty-nine. She called Avi.

  “What do you know about someone named Israel Wilensky?” she asked without prelude.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “He was arguing with Nadya a few days before she was killed. He might have killed her.”

  “He didn’t,” Avi said shortly.

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s out of the country.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He’s more or less my uncle.”

  “What do you mean, more or less?”

  “He’s one of my father’s best friends. They were in the air force together, and they are in the same reserve unit.”

  Wilensky seemed to have a lot of pseudo-nieces and nephews. But if there was some significance to that, Chloe couldn’t think what it was.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to say your uncle’s a murderer.”

  “It’s okay. He’s a pig. But he’s been in Italy for two weeks. I got a postcard from him.”

  “Well, I still think he has something to do with Nadya getting killed.”

  She hung up. She was almost uncontrollably happy, to have things to do, to have Rania and Avi and Jaber talking to her about the case, instead of sneaking around hiding things from her. At the same time, all the cloak-and-dagger stuff was making her tense. Ahlam’s scary phone calls, Avi’s evasiveness. She wished she could have a glass of wine, but alcohol was forbidden in Muslim villages. She called Rania to report on what she had learned.

  “Do you have the internet at home?” she asked. Few Palestinians did, but she was not surprised when Rania said yes.

  “Look up Israel Wilensky,” Chloe told her. “He’s a colonel in the air force. Find a picture of him.”

  A few minutes later, Rania returned the call. “That’s him,” she said. “The guy with Nadya in the picture we found.”

  “So a friend of Gelenter’s knew Nadya before she came to Elkana,” Chloe mused.

  “And Gelenter told us he didn’t know anyone matching Wilensky’s description,” Rania added. “Which means he lied. Again.”

  Chapter 24

  “Jenin, Jenin,” chorused the drivers at Anabta Gate, just outside Tulkarem. Good, Rania thought. She would not have to wait for a car. She climbed into a service taxi along with two other women and two little girls. Both women were laden with packages, so after they had filled the trunk, there were still plastic bags covering every inch of the interior. The crowning grace was the live chickens one woman held on her lap. It was going to be a noisy, smelly trip.

  Twenty minutes later, they were still sitting in the parking lot. A service held seven, and they were five. At this rate, they might need to wait for the next bus from Ramallah to deliver two more passengers. Rania looked anxiously at her watch. She had not been to work since Wednesday, when Captain Mustafa had taken her off the Nadya case. This morning she had called the station and told the young woman who answered the phone that zuruf, circumstances, detained her. She hoped she would be in the office by noon. The woman with the chickens took out a large round of taboun bread and tore off a piece for her little daughter. She held out the folded slab to Rania, who politely declined. If the woman really wanted to share with her, she would tear off a piece herself and thrust it into Rania’s hand. She didn’t. That was fine, Rania wasn’t hungry. She just wanted to get to Jenin.

  Their driver was sitting with several other drivers on upturned milk crates under one of the shade trees. One of them had made coffee on a small camp stove.

  “Haj,” she called, and the driver of the car she sat in turned around. “Let’s go,” she said. “I will pay the extra fares.”

  He threw back the remains of his coffee, said goodbye to his buddies and climbed into the cab. It was a lot of money, forty-five shekels in all, and she could not afford it, but she couldn’t afford to sit here all morning either. The car jounced along the rough roads, making good time. The windows were wide open to the warm air, pungent with the smell of the garlic that grew in the fields along the road. Rania realized she had nodded off when the car made a sudden stop. She sat up straight and looked around, hoping to see the shops and traffic of central Jenin. But no, they were still on the empty road.

  “What is it?” she asked the woman with the chickens.

  “Roadblock.”

  Now Rania saw the soldiers, their olive garb blending in with the surrounding foliage. There were five of them. She didn’t see a vehicle. She didn’t envy them, dropped here in the middle of nowhere, outside the city with the most organized resistance forces in Palestine. Three of the
m were guarding the road, and two searching a car in the middle of the road. There was one more car between theirs and the one being searched.

  Rania fidgeted, craning her neck to see over the driver’s head. The car they were searching had been filled with luggage—a family coming back from a trip. The soldiers had made them empty the trunk and the luggage rack and open every bag. They were pawing through the clothes now, asking questions she couldn’t hear. After what seemed a very long time, the occupants of the car were left to repack their bags and reload the car—agonizingly slowly, in Rania’s opinion. The soldiers could have started on the next car during the repacking, but chose instead to take a break, standing around chatting and idly pointing their guns at the family. Rania was nearly jumping out of her seat with impatience, the driver gently tapping out a fugue on the steering wheel, but the women in her car sat implacably, gazing out the windows as if they had nothing to do but sit on this road until some post-pubescent brats decided they could go. What was wrong with them? she wondered. Or was it something wrong with her?

  The soldiers were finally moving toward the second car, the one right in front of them. It was a private car, not a taxi. Two men got out and the driver opened the trunk. They did not have a lot of baggage, so it should go much faster. One of the soldiers reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a handful of strawberries. He tasted one, then put the others back. Sure, Rania thought, you needed to make sure there weren’t little bomblets hidden in the berries. It was almost enough to make her wish there were. Now one of the Palestinians was bending over something on the ground she couldn’t quite see. He rose holding a violin by the neck, the way the woman next to her was holding the chickens. That was unusual here. Most Palestinians who played instruments played tabla drums or oud, and more recently guitars and electric keyboards had come into vogue. She wouldn’t have a clue where to get a violin.

  “Play it,” Rania heard the soldier say in English. The man tucked the violin under his chin and drew the bow across the strings twice before lowering it to his side.

  “Do you know a sonata?” the stocky soldier asked. “Maybe one by Beethoven?”

  “No!” Rania’s involuntary shout echoed through the open windows. The man with the violin, the soldiers, and the driver of the other car turned as one to see where the noise had come from. Two of the soldiers who were standing off to the side ran toward their car. Rania decided the best thing would be to climb out, so that any punishment for her instinctive rebellion would be directed at her alone and not the others in her car. She had to climb over the woman with the chickens to reach the door. The two little girls, who had been sleeping in the back seat, were awake now and watching her with saucer-eyes, the littlest one sucking her thumb.

  “You have a problem?” one of the soldiers asked when she stood in front of him.

  “Your friend has a problem,” she said, gesturing to the music-loving soldier. “He needs to abuse his power.”

  “Who says it is abuse? You?” He looked like he was contemplating spitting in her face. She hoped he would decide against it. His mate stood silently, looking around, his finger on the trigger of his gun. He probably didn’t understand enough English to know what was going on.

  “Yes, I say so,” she said. She walked deliberately to the place where the violinist and the soldier stood as if frozen. She was thankful for the long jilbab so they couldn’t see her legs shaking.

  The violinist looked in his early forties, dapper, perfectly dressed with full, waving black hair. He was probably a teacher at the Arab American University in Jenin, an expensive private college in the nearby town of Zbabde. He put the violin to his shoulder.

  “Khalas.” Enough, Rania urged softly. “Put it away. Don’t humiliate yourself.”

  The tall man smiled down at her, his dark eyes twinkling, and then drew the bow across the strings with a feather-light touch. The air filled with unspeakable beauty. Rania had never heard anything like the piece he played—she was no fan of Western music—but the emotion it evoked was overpowering. He played and played, the notes carrying across the still countryside.

  When the last sweet notes had died away, the man made a slight flourish with his bow, saluting an imaginary audience. He stooped and carefully placed the violin in its case, covering it with a soft red cloth. He snapped the car’s trunk shut, without waiting for an okay from the soldiers, but the violin he carried with him to the passenger’s side.

  “Shukran.” Thanks, he said to Rania, opening the car door.

  “Tik alafia,” she replied. Bless your work.

  The startled driver climbed into the car and started the engine. None of the soldiers had said a word since the music began, but now they bustled around, reclaiming the territory. With the spell broken, Rania realized she was now in the line of fire. The soldiers realized it, too. As usual, she had not thought before jumping into a situation. Here she was, hours from where she was supposed to be, already late, and they could hold her at this checkpoint all day if they wanted.

  “Hawiyya,” the soldier who had eaten the strawberry said to her. She fumbled inside her large purse for her ID, surreptitiously removing her police identification from the green folder before handing it to him. He took it and went to talk to one of the others, who took out a mobile phone and called someone. Rania wasn’t worried. She was not wanted. She just hoped they didn’t take too long finding that out. She had seen men waiting hours sometimes to get clearance. The soldiers would often say the computers were down. If they did not give her ID back in ten minutes, she would start to make a fuss. The soldiers were searching the car now, telling the women and kids to get out and stand on one side. They said something to the woman with the chickens and she got back into the car. Rania guessed they were worried about getting pecked.

  She heard a giant roar. An armored personnel carrier, APC, was making its way toward them, kicking up massive amounts of dust in its wake. The driver yelled something to the soldiers, who ran to climb aboard, the cars completely forgotten.

  “Wait, wait!” Rania ran after the small tank. “What about my ID?”

  The taxi sped past her. “Hey!” she called ineffectually. Just what she needed, to lose her ride as well as her ID. Then she realized what the driver was attempting to do. He tried to edge the taxi around the APC, but the road was too wide and surrounded by deep ditches. As the APC sped off, Rania saw a hand poking through the hole in the top, making an obscene gesture.

  She climbed into the taxi. The women were laughing and the girls giggling. I’m glad I’m such a source of amusement for you, she thought grumpily. Then she imagined what she must have looked like, a tiny woman running after a tank, and she began to laugh with them.

  * * *

  Once inside Jenin, Rania realized she had no idea how to go about finding information about what Colonel Wilensky’s unit had done. She had only been in the city a few times in her life. She didn’t know anyone there. She looked around the busy central market. It was like any other Palestinian city, crammed with stalls full of spices, clothing, meat, luggage, and live animals, carts piled high with vegetables, little street-side stands making falafel and sweets. She looked hungrily at the pancakes spread with apricot marmalade, a treat unique to Jenin. She had not eaten breakfast, and thanks to the flying checkpoint, it was now mid-morning. She had to ask someone where to go, she might as well start with the pancake vendor.

  “Were you here during the siege?” she asked him as he rolled up her cake and dusted it with powdered sugar.

  “Yes, of course,” he responded. “My house was destroyed.”

  “Haram.” For shame, she commiserated. In her eagerness for information, she had forgotten that the people here would still be raw from trauma. “Have you been able to rebuild?” she asked, conscious of the minutes ticking away.

  “No, we are staying with my wife’s family. No money,” he said.

  “Inshalla, soon,” she said. Perhaps she should order another pancake. But then, she didn’t ev
en know if he would be able to help her. If she had to ask other merchants, they too would have tragic stories. Best to spread her few shekels around.

  “I am looking for people who witnessed a particular incident,” she told him. “The family of Hassan Rashid was killed by a missile.”

  “Yes, I remember,” he said. “Many people were injured.”

  “Do you know where I might find any of them? I am with the police, and I need to ask what they remember.”

  “The police are investigating this?” he asked skeptically. “After so much time?”

  “Not exactly that,” she said. “It might be related to something we are investigating.”

  “The son of my neighbor,” he said. “He lost his leg.” He motioned to a man drinking coffee at a nearby stall. “This is Abu Saif,” he said. “He has a taxi. He can take you to the house.”

  “Shouldn’t we call and make sure he is home? If it is too far to walk, I wouldn’t want to go there for nothing.”

  “He will be home.”

  She didn’t know how he could be so sure. She would just have to hope that he was right, that Abu Saif was honest and knew the way, and that the young man who lost his leg had something useful to tell her. She thanked the vendor and followed Abu Saif to his cab, which was an ordinary, beat-up white car.

  “How far is it?” she asked, mainly for something to say. He didn’t answer. That wasn’t a good sign. Or maybe he didn’t believe in talking to women he didn’t know. He wove in and out of traffic, making quick turns down increasingly narrow streets. Soon they were driving into Jenin Camp, the largest refugee camp in the West Bank. It reminded her of Aida in the way the shops and houses were crammed together in the dirt roads, but she saw none of the beautiful tiled houses or bright murals that made Aida look so lively. This was a dingy expanse of misery.

  “This is the place,” the driver said. She followed his outstretched arm. It was an empty square about two blocks long and wide, with only a few half-demolished structures around the edges. “The place” meant the area that had been leveled by the tanks during that fateful week. The story was that the army commander wanted to clear a football field with his tank. At that time, she knew, this area had been filled with the remains of people and houses. She had seen the photos of heartbroken people picking through the rubble, looking for prize possessions or family members. Now, a few small children ran around the lot shrieking with laughter as they rolled hoops with sticks.