by Kate Raphael
“Mama!” A little ball of flesh flew through the air and then she was burying her face in Khaled’s woolly hair. When she looked up, Bassam was standing in the living room doorway, smiling the lopsided smile that had made her love him that first day in college.
“Mama called,” he said. “And Mustafa did too. They said you seemed very lonely.”
Chapter 41
Chloe had never been so bored. Whenever she had been arrested at home, she had been with busloads of other people like herself. It had been like summer camp, groups of women giving each other massages and having workshops and talent shows. She had thought going to jail for real would be scary, like those B-movies about Babes Behind Bars. She had never thought about how dull it would be, just to be left with nothing to do and no one to talk to.
She wandered over to where Ursula was playing cards with a willowy blonde named Yelena and a brassy-haired older woman Chloe thought was called Katya. She tried to make sense of their card game, or think of something to say in her few words of Russian, but couldn’t quite manage either. She went back to her cot, wondering if she would start getting bed sores soon.
“America!” a man’s voice bellowed from the outer room. “Boi!”
Well, let them bellow. Her name wasn’t America, and she didn’t answer to commands. If they wanted something from her, they could come ask nicely. She huddled under the blanket, pretending to sleep. Soon Diana was pulling the blanket aside, her pixie face a study in irritation.
“Didn’t you hear us calling you?” Diana asked.
“No, I heard someone say ‘America,’ but that’s not my name.”
“Here, it is. Come.”
She supposed she might as well find out what they wanted. Maybe it was something good—maybe Rachel had found a way to get her out. She followed Diana into the sitting room.
Two men stood there, chatting with some of the other women. One was round and dark and balding. His eyes darted from one person to another, and his face seemed to twitch with barely controlled hostility. He reminded Chloe of a terrier. The other man was tall and slim, with a gentle, amused expression. He was the one who brought their food in the morning.
“HaAmerikait,” said Diana.
“Boi, tishvi.” Come here, sit down, said the shorter man, pointing to one of the plastic chairs next to the table where they ate. She squinted to read his name tag, which read “Shaul Gabi” in Hebrew. She had heard people say that Shaul was the captain here. He didn’t introduce himself.
“Hello, how are you?” he began, in the slightly menacing tone guys like him are so good at.
She answered, “Fine.”
“Hakol bseder? Ein b’ayot?” No problems?
“No,” Chloe answered, “everything’s okay. I mean, I’d rather not be here …”
“Why not? You have a problem here?”
“No, it’s just, this isn’t what I planned on doing.”
He shoved a paper and a pen across the table at her.
“Sign this.”
“What is it?”
“Your deportation order.”
“No, I would rather not sign it.”
“You have no choice. You are in prison.”
“I do have a choice, and I’m exercising it.”
“Mah he omeret?” Shaul looked at the other man, who was apparently the translator, though his English was not that great either. His name tag read “David.” He said something in Hebrew. Chloe couldn’t tell if he got it right or not.
“You’re a prisoner. If I tell you to sign something, you sign.”
The other women had turned off the television and gathered around. Live entertainment, she supposed, was better than soap operas.
“I don’t know that much about Israeli law,” Chloe said, “but I know I don’t have to sign anything. And I want to see a lawyer. Are we done?” She stood up and walked back toward her room.
“You are in my place,” Shaul said with carefully controlled violence. “You can’t do whatever you want. You can stand up when I say so.”
Chloe turned around. Shaul was gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles whitened. The tension in the room was thicker than ketchup that won’t come out of the bottle. She looked around at the twenty female eyes fixed on her and wondered whom they were rooting for.
She walked back and sat down, directly under Shaul’s nose. He glared down at her. What about her had aroused so much instant hatred in this guy? It made no difference if she signed the paper or not. If not signing a deportation order could stop anyone from being deported, few people ever would be.
“Do you think of yourself as a control freak?” she asked.
“What did she say?” Shaul asked David.
“I didn’t understand,” David admitted.
“What did you say?” Shaul demanded of Chloe.
“I wondered if you need to get your way all the time.”
“Mah?” to David. David translated for him. Shaul’s neck turned dark red and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. His tie seemed to be choking him. Chloe was afraid he was about to have a heart attack right in front of them.
“You’re not better than the others,” Shaul suddenly said in English.
“Which others?”
“The other prisoners here.”
Had she given the other women that impression? Was that why they didn’t like her? “I know I’m not.”
“When I tell them to do something, they do it.”
Oh, that. “Maybe they’re afraid of you, but I’m not.”
The competition was suddenly over. He asked her once more, “You won’t sign?”
“No.”
“Ein b’ayah,” he said after a final long stare.
If it was no problem, then why all the drama? She didn’t ask. She also didn’t walk back into her room. She stood, along with the other women who still watched silently as he took the massive set of keys from his belt loop, unlocked the cell door, and ushered his entourage out. When he was gone, the room exploded like a popped balloon.
“Kol hakavod, Chloe,” said Yelena. Good for you, that meant. Everyone was laughing with each other and smiling at her. Ursula kissed her hard on both cheeks. Katya appeared with a chocolate bar and sectioned it out to celebrate. She was one of them now. But she still had no language to ask them what she wanted to know. She smiled at them and turned the television set back on. Soon enough, they were fixated on the screen instead of her.
Her phone was beeping at regular intervals, telling her there was a message. Thankfully, she could get into Nir Gelenter’s voicemail without a password. She listened to the message and texted Rania that she was available. A minute later, her phone rang.
“Meron Levav?” Chloe gasped when Rania finished her story. “You’re sure?”
“That’s what Benny said was written in the log book. Do you know him?”
“Not him,” Chloe said. “His son.”
Chapter 41
Rania woke at dawn, to the familiar blend of rooster’s crow and call to prayer. She rubbed her cheek softly against Bassam’s hairy chest. He murmured but did not wake. She heard the faint sound of Khaled’s light snoring next door. She climbed out of bed soundlessly, wrapped herself in a light robe, and went out to gather eggs for breakfast.
The door to the chicken coop was open. She must have failed to close it firmly behind her the day before. It had been dark when she got home, and her mind was occupied by seeing the light in her house, but her mother-in-law had been home all day. Every day in the summer, she spent hours out in the garden. Rania couldn’t imagine how she could have failed to notice the gate swinging wide open. Could the old woman have opened the coop for some reason, and then gone to answer the phone or something? There was no way to know.
She gathered the eggs and checked on all the chickens. None of them seemed disturbed. They wandered around clucking just as they always did. Two of them were quietly perched together on a mound of straw in the corner. She went to pe
er at them. They seemed fine, just licking each other’s feathers. She headed back to the house, but something made her go back and look more closely at the mound where the two lovebirds sat.
“Shoo,” she ordered, snapping her fingers. They obligingly waddled off, only a little indignant at having been rousted so early. Reaching into the straw, her fingers touched fabric. She tore away the layers of straw. There was a small canvas tote bag with leather top and handles. What on earth was it doing in her chicken coop, and who had left it there?
She cradled the eggs carefully in one hand and carried the bag in the other. Leaving the eggs on the counter, she opened the bag and dumped the contents out on the kitchen table. Four thin blouses and two pairs of slacks, a pair of high-heeled sandals similar to the ones Nadya had been wearing. A gilt double picture frame, one side holding a picture of Fareed, the other a chubby-cheeked girl, about three years old with dark hair. A delicate golden filigree hamsa on a small chain, the right size for a child.
There were no papers, no name inside, but she didn’t need any to know whose things these were. But who had left them in her chicken coop, and why? She would worry about that at the office. As much as she wanted to delve into the mystery right away, she would not squander this morning with her son. For at least one day, she would act like someone who had learned something. She fried the eggs with lots of olive oil and salt and put flat bread spread with zaatar, in the oven to bake. The smells brought her boys to the table just as she was pouring sweet tea into glasses with springs of mint.
She carried the heavy bag with her to the bus stop.
“Going on a trip?” said a voice behind her. She spun around.
Abdelhakim. What was he doing here? He lived in Kufr Yunus, on the other side of Hares. There was no reason for him to be at Qarawa this time of the morning.
“I spent the night at my aunt’s house, in Biddia,” he said, as if reading her mind. Her eyes went to his shoes, vainly searching for fragments of straw. Of course, if she had found any, it would have meant nothing. Doubtless his aunt had chickens as well. But as far as she could tell, his shiny dress loafers were spotless.
The bus pulled up and they boarded. She took a seat next to Um Raad, and Abdelhakim moved toward the back where she heard him greeting several of the younger men heartily.
“I heard Bassam got back,” Um Raad said as the bus pulled away from the blocks.
It was six in the morning. How could word have spread so quickly? People two towns away must have known her husband was home before she did.
“Yes,” she said. “He had a nice visit with his sister, but now he is home. I am very happy.”
When she got to the office she went straight to Captain Mustafa’s office. He was on the phone, but he hung up quickly when she entered.
“I found this in my chicken coop,” she said, placing the bag on top of his desk. “It is the bag that Nadya was carrying the morning she was killed, the one Fareed took with him.”
He extracted a cigarette from his breast pocket and took his time lighting it.
“How did it get in with chickens?” he asked.
“I have no idea. Someone obviously put it there.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“I told you, I don’t know. But the point is, what do I do with it?”
“Did you tell Benny?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you first. Do you think I should tell him?”
“What is in it?”
“Clothes. A little jewelry. Pictures. I don’t think there is anything that helps or hurts Fareed.”
“Leave it here.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I am not sure. If I give it to the Israelis, they might believe that you found it the first day and kept it all this time. If the boy is going to plead guilty, perhaps they do not need it.”
“Do you think someone was trying to get me in trouble with the army?”
“I do not know. It is possible.”
Who would do such a thing? She looked out the glass window into the office. Abdelhakim was at his desk, diligently going over files.
“Go back to your work,” the captain said. “I will think about this.”
As she walked toward her desk, the phone started to ring. She rushed to answer it.
“Meet me outside,” said a low voice. It sounded vaguely familiar.
“Who is this, please?”
“At the fruit stand on the corner.” He hung up. At least she thought it was a man. The person had spoken so low, she couldn’t be sure.
She saw Abdelhakim watching her as she took her purse and walked outside. She looked around her carefully to make sure no one was following. Of course, she couldn’t know who was watching from what windows. Her conversation with Um Raad on the bus had reminded her how few secrets there were in this area. But she had to know what was going on.
The little fruit shop was empty except for Abu Mahmoud, the shopkeeper. She wondered where she should wait. Why had the caller picked this little stand? A bigger place would have given them more cover. She picked up a handful of cherries, as if inspecting them.
“Come this way.” The young man had not come from outside, but from a doorway in the back. He indicated she should follow him back that way.
They mounted the stairs and she followed him through an open door into a pleasant apartment. A woman a little older than her was peeling okra at the sink.
“Who are you?” she asked the boy. With his wavy black hair and thick lips, he reminded her of a Lebanese fashion model.
“My name is Wajdi. This is my aunt, Um Mahmoud.”
Um Mahmoud turned one shoulder in her direction. “Assalaamu aleikum,” they murmured in unison.
“You are Fareed’s friend. The one he left the bag with.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you put it in my yard?”
“Someone told me to.”
“Who?”
“I cannot say.”
“So why are you telling me now?”
“The person who told me, he said to leave it where you would not find it. But when I saw you come with it this morning, I did not want you to worry.”
“I am not sure I believe you.”
“It is the truth.”
“Did you tell the Israelis Fareed had left the bag with you?”
“No. The Yahudi must have told them.”
The response was practiced and too fast. Wajdi had no way to know that the Israelis knew about the bag at all, unless he had told them. But she couldn’t be sure, and even if she were, what would she do? To accuse a young man as a collaborator was a very serious, even deadly thing to do. She was not ready to do that to Wajdi. Time would tell what he was.
“You called me before,” she said.
“No, only this morning.”
“At home. You called my house a few nights ago. Who told you to?”
“No one. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
He was lying. She was not going to waste more time with him. Probably she would never know why he had done any of it. Someone must have intended to tip off the Israelis so they would search her yard and find the bag. Someone wanted her to be afraid. She didn’t know who and she didn’t know why. She suspected some combination of Abu Ziyad and Abdelhakim, but she would not give them the satisfaction of accusing them, since they would only deny it. She didn’t think Wajdi would be making any more problems for her. Hopefully he would also not make any for himself or Fareed.
Chapter 42
Chloe went back over everything that had happened since Fareed was arrested. She thought about Fareed’s friends saying Avi was a spy, and Avi acting like he thought Fareed was guilty. That day at the Kirya, she had wondered why Gelenter let Avi be arrested. Maybe it was all a set-up—they had come for her, and only pretended to be taking him. Maybe his job had been to stay with her and let Wilensky and his father know if she was getting too close to the truth. She couldn’t stand to follow wher
e her train of thought was going, but she couldn’t afford not to. If what she was working out was true, then she was really, truly alone and no one would help her. She started to cry, only a little bit at first, but the hot tears felt somehow comforting on her skin. She lay face down, hiding her face in her pillow so no one would see or hear, and let the tears flow.
Her phone rang. Startled, she nearly answered it before she remembered that it was not really her phone. She looked at the number. It was Wilensky’s out of country number. Her finger was pressing down on the connect button even as her mind was still considering whether it was a good idea.
“Hello?” she said.
There was silence on the other end. She would have thought that he had hung up, except she could hear him breathing. He didn’t breathe easily, there was a little wheeze; he must be or have been a smoker.
“Hello?” she said again.
“Malkah?” he guessed.
“No.”
“Mi at? Ayfo Nir?” In the midst of recovering his balance and asserting his accustomed authority, he must not have registered that she had spoken English.
“Hu lo po,” she said, he’s not here, before realizing that it didn’t make sense to start a conversation in Hebrew, since she would almost certainly not understand whatever he said next. In English, “I’m a friend of his daughter’s.”
“What are you doing with his Pelephone?”
“Um, he kind of lent it to me. How is Italy?”
“How do you know who I am?”
“Nadya told me.”
He was silent for so long that she thought for a second he had hung up. Then he said, “Nadya is there with you?”
She tried to parse his expression and the various possible meanings of his question. He was shocked, but that in itself did not prove anything. Was he trying to get her to confirm that Nadya was dead, fearing perhaps that he had not actually killed her? Or did he really mean, Is Nadya there with you? And if she said, Oh, yes, she’s right here, would he say, Let me talk to her?