Verse

by Moses Roth

  “The closest city in the West Bank to Jerusalem. We’ll stage there.”

  We fly to Jordan and are smuggled in the back of a cargo truck into the West Bank.

  We’re safely through the border and Awadi pulls aside the back flap of the truck. I watch the countryside as we drive.

  We drive into Bethlehem. It’s a hilly, rundown town. The walls are covered in graffiti and ads for Christian tourist sites.

  We pull into a gated compound, bustling with people, and get out. Men carry boxes around, loading trucks.

  Awadi shows me to my room.

  I wake up. Out my window, it’s clearing out as the trucks leave, full of soldiers. On the television, I watch news of the invasion. I can hear bombs going off to the north.

  Awadi knocks on my door and brings me down to Urdunn in the courtyard, who says, “You have become a hero to your people, do you know this?”

  I shake my head. “I saw something about it on TV.”

  “Tomorrow we will take television news station in Jerusalem. We want you to ride with our forces. Make a speech for your people to surrender. Maybe some will listen. You will save lives this way.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you agree?”

  “Yeah.”

  He says, “Good,” and motions for me to go back to my room. He heads over to a group of men and one of them is the man who killed Iris.

  I nearly stumble over my feet. I keep walking. I could grab Awadi’s gun. No way. Disarm him and shoot him and Urdunn in time? Never never never.

  I go inside, climb the stairs, and go into my room.

  I look out the window. Urdunn and two other men, the one who stabbed me in my eye and one of the others are all getting into a car. Awadi is talking with the man who killed Iris.

  Urdunn says, “Malak!”

  The man who killed Iris raises a hand to acknowledge Urdunn, shakes Awadi’s hand goodbye, and heads to the car and gets in.

  They drive out of the compound. That was it. That was my chance and I blew it.

  Chapter 87

  I put on the suit and the dress shoes and tie. Cheap polyester, but I guess it’ll look good on television. I’m gonna stink in this heat, though. I leave my room, meet Awadi in the lobby, and leave the hotel. The sun is just rising over the hill. I follow him to a jeep and he introduces me to Farid, a guy in his thirties.

  Awadi drives, I sit shotgun, and Farid sits in the back.

  We follow a tank toward the north wall facing Jerusalem. Awadi picks up the radio and says something in Arabic into it.

  The ground vibrates and there’s a roar as a jet strafes the wall and a BOOM as a section explodes in a cloud of dust.

  The jet strafes it again and again and once the dust settles men begin clearing out the rubble.

  Finally, we follow the tank through the hole.

  We go down a hill and up another and then we’re onto the deserted highway, heading into Jerusalem.

  I turn and look behind us, at the other cars and jeeps full of soldiers, coming with us.

  I look back toward Jerusalem as we draw closer. There are more planes flying over it and helicopters buzzing through it. I try to listen over the engine noise and can hear the faint rumbles of explosions.

  My heart flutters and I feel queasy.

  There are abandoned cars up ahead and we weave through them. No, not abandoned. Dead bodies inside.

  I turn to Awadi and say, “What are we doing when we arrive at the TV station?”

  He indicates Farid with his head.

  I turn around in my seat and say, “Do you speak English, Farid?”

  “Yes, I speak,” he says.

  “Do you know what to do when we arrive?”

  “Yes, I know. I am journalist in Ramallah. I work with TV system. And you know what to say?”

  “Yeah, they wrote me a speech. I don’t think it’s gonna help much, though.”

  “Why you say this? You are hero to Jewish people, no?”

  “That’s what they tell me. I’m guessing it’s just the ultra-Orthodox. Everyone else probably hates me.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think they’re all gonna surrender, just cause I say to.”

  “I see.”

  “If anything, that’ll just make me stop being their hero.”

  “Anything you can do for help is help. We can’t say who will win, so maybe one person will surrender, it can matter.”

  “Okay.”

  He says, “Help us. You are still hero for them. Be hero for us. Help us. Anything you are able to do. Help us.”

  I nod.

  We meet eyes, it gets uncomfortable, so I turn back around in my seat.

  We reach the city and our jeep breaks off from the convoy and heads down an entrance ramp into West Jerusalem.

  We get onto a street and there are soldiers fighting ahead, we go around the block to avoid them, passing debris and bodies.

  We come to the TV station and stop in front. The three of us get out and run inside.

  The door shuts behind Farid and it’s eerily quiet.

  Farid says, “The studio is on the eighth floor.” We walk through the lobby, our shoes on the tile the only sound.

  The security desk is abandoned. Awadi calls the elevator and it dings open.

  We ride it up and it opens on the eighth floor and we get out. We walk down the carpeted hall. We go into an empty control room facing a news set with two desks.

  Farid checks the equipment and points at a monitor that shows a title card in Hebrew and says, “They’re playing it on a loop. I’ll prepare to broadcast.” He goes into the set and I follow and Awadi follows me. Farid picks up a lavalier mic off the desk and says, “Let me put this on you.”

  I say, “I worked in TV, I got it, no problem.”

  He hands it to me and says, “Okay, when you are ready, get in position.”

  I attach the mic to my shirt, run the wire under my jacket, attach the battery pack to my belt, and turn it on. I stand in front of the desk, facing the camera.

  Farid adjusts the camera. “You’ll stand there?” he says.

  I nod.

  He goes into the control room.

  I pull out the speech Urdunn gave me.

  It’s in Romanized Hebrew. I read it over.

  I check Awadi, he’s standing behind the camera, holding his Uzi, watching me.

  I look at Farid. He’s got a questioning look in his eyes.

  I nod at him.

  He hits some buttons and holds up his left hand, fingers spread for five.

  He ticks down the index finger, four.

  Middle finger, three.

  Ring finger, two.

  Pinky, one.

  Thumb, zero, a closed fist.

  He nods at me and puts his arm down.

  “Shalom,” I say to the camera. I glance at the paper.

  Ani Manuel Ka

  The world erupts in fire.

  The ground smacks into me, knocking my breath out, and I choke and gasp for air, sucking in smoke and coughing.

  I crawl for the door, into the control room, the air is better, I gasp on it, breathe it in, it’s sweet.

  Farid’s corpse is slumped over a monitor, his stomach torn open, his small intestine sagging from it, dripping bile and blood.

  It’s getting smokier, I go to the door and get on my knees and turn the knob and open it.

  Fresh air rushes in. I crawl into the hall and just lie there.

  Catch my breath.

  Okay.

  Just a minute.

  Okay.

  Okay.

  I stand up and look around. The smoke is only coming from the studio.

  There’s a fire extinguisher on the wall, I grab it, pull the ring, put my shirt over my mouth, and go back in. It’s thick with smoke, there’s a fire on the back wall, I aim the hose at it and spray it.

  Foam covers it and it dies out.

  Through the smoke, there’s a hole i
n the back wall and a broken window in the next room, a conference room. Must have been a rocket or something. What are the odds of that?

  Awadi groans.

  I drop the extinguisher and run to him, where he’s lying against the wall at the front of the room. I kneel down and pull the crook of his arm over my shoulder and drag him into the hallway and lay him on his back.

  He’s not conscious, bleeding from a head wound, his skull is half-caved in.

  His right hand is gripping his Uzi, squeezing the trigger, must be stopped by the safety. I grab it by the barrel and take it from him.

  I turn his head slightly.

  The dent in his skull is deep. He needs a hospital. If there were one around here. And I could get him to it. There’s brain matter in that wound.

  I look at the gun. Find the safety. Click it off.

  Aim it at him.

  It’s merciful.

  It’s the right thing to do.

  I squeeze the trigger and FIRE.

  My hand jerks up, and I’m deafened by three bangs.

  One hole in Awadi’s skull, two in the floor.

  I kneel and check his pulse on his neck.

  I don’t feel anything.

  Is that the right spot?

  I put my hand over his mouth.

  No breath.

  He’s dead.

  I go to the wall and sit down and lean against it.

  Killing someone is supposed to be one of those profound things, right?

  I’m supposed to have a reflective moment, I think.

  Awadi’s cell phone rings.

  I crawl over to him and check his jacket.

  It rings again from his pants.

  I pull it out of his right front pocket and look at it. The name’s in Arabic.

  It rings again and I sit back down against the wall.

  It rings again.

  I answer, “Hello?”

  “Alo? Salaam, Awadi, haadhaa Malak,” and he continues in Arabic and says something about “Mazal Ravid.”

  I say, “Malak?”

  “Naam, haadhaa Malak.”

  I say, “You killed the only person I ever loved.”

  “Awadi?”

  “No, this is Immanuel Kadur.”

  The line goes dead.

  He wanted to tell Awadi something about the prime minister.

  I don’t know.

  I look down the hallway, toward the elevator, doors on the right and left.

  I dial Erwin.

  “Hello?”

  “Erwin, it’s Manuel.”

  “Manuel! You’re alive! I saw that video of you, we all though you might be— Where are you?”

  “I’m in Jerusalem. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Jerusalem too, with my unit.”

  “Erwin, maybe this is a stupid question, but do you know where the prime minister is?”

  “He was in the bombing of the Knesset. He’s alive but in a coma. He must be in a hospital. I don’t know, why?”

  “Can you ask somebody?”

  “Hold on.”

  I crawl back to Awadi and dig into his other pocket. Wallet. Keys. Cigarettes. Lighter.

  I take the cash, keys, cigarettes, and lighter and put them in my coat pocket.

  The phone dings and I check it, there’s an address.

  I stand up and head down the hall, putting the phone back to my ear.

  “Erwin?”

  “Did you get it?” he says.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Sure, one of my buddies has a buddy on guard duty there. What’s this about?”

  I call the elevator. “Maybe nothing, I don’t know.”

  “Or maybe…?”

  “Maybe some men are going there to kill him.”

  “I’ll tell my commander.”

  “Erwin, don’t do that.” The left elevator dings open and I get on.

  “Why not? Manuel, I have to—”

  “Erwin. Please. For me. Trust me.” I press

  0

  and the doors shut.

  “Wait, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m on my way there.” The elevator hums and moves down.

  “Manuel, that’s crazy.”

  The elevator stops with a slight bounce. “I know.”

  The door opens and I walk through the lobby. He says, “Manuel, what are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” I open the door and walk outside.

  “You’re not a soldier.” I get into the jeep.

  I say, “It’s in God’s hands,” and hang up and toss the phone in the passenger seat and then set the gun next to it.

  I put the key in the ignition, turn it, start the jeep, and drive off.

  Chapter 88

  I pull up in front of the hospital, people are clustered in front, many wearing scrubs, some of them screaming and crying, and more people are coming out, aides helping patients through the door. Gunfire sounds come from within. An empty Humvee is parked by the door.

  I grab Awadi’s Uzi from the passenger seat and it shakes, my hand is shaking. I try to settle it with the other, but both of my hands are shaking.

  All right.

  I can do this.

  Okay.

  I open the door, my stomach lurching, and I step out.

  I swallow and walk across the parking lot toward the hospital.

  Sweat gets in my eye and I wipe my forehead, it stings with acidity.

  My mouth is so dry, I’m so thirsty.

  I weave through the crowd.

  Ignore them, ignore their looks.

  I get to the door, go around a man in a wheelchair, wheeled by a nurse. She says, “Adon? Adon?” to me and grabs the arm of my jacket and I pull it away and keep walking inside.

  Machine-gunfire comes from the hallway going left.

  I swallow and walk that way.

  Into the corridor, it’s quiet. No more gunfire and no one here. My footsteps echo on the tile.

  I put my gun up, click off the safety, and aim it in front of me with both hands.

  Try to keep it steady.

  Steady.

  Slowly move forward.

  What am I doing?

  This is stupid, they’ll shoot me if they see the gun.

  I lower it and click the safety back on and tuck it in the back of my pants. It sags. I untuck my jacket over it.

  Slowly walk forward. Reach a corner and peer around it.

  Another empty corridor.

  There’s bodies on the ground, Israeli soldiers.

  I go to the bodies and check. Four of them, riddled with bullet holes, blood everywhere. Three of them lying on top of each other, the other splayed out.

  I go to the one splayed out and kneel down for his rifle.

  Younger than me, I don’t think he was even twenty.

  Bullet holes in his chest and his right cheekbone.

  I grab his rifle and stand up.

  No, that’s stupid, if they see me with the rifle, they’ll kill me.

  I set it back down on the body. He has a grenade on his flak jacket.

  I grab it.

  Machine-gunfire, deafeningly close.

  I creep to the end of the hallway and peer around.

  Malak and three men are at the next corner. One of them kneels at the corner, peering around at whatever’s behind, aiming his rifle.

  “Lower your guns!” he says.

  He fires and there’s return fire and he pulls back around the corner.

  What now?

  Why am I here?

  I look down at the grenade.

  I pull the pin out.

  It’s shaking.

  Steady.

  Come on.

  Just like a baseball.

  I look at them and wind my arm up.

  Okay.

  Do it.

  Just do it.

  I throw it.

  It lands a couple of feet from Malak.

  One of his men turns and looks at it, and shrieks.<
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  I step back around the corner, turn, close my eye, and duck into a ball.

  The hallway EXPLODES.

  I wait.

  All I hear is EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

  Someone is moaning in agony.

  I open my eyes and lift my head.

  I stand up, turn, and peer around the corner. The ceiling and walls have collapsed.

  I take out my Uzi and click the safety off.

  Hold it in front of me and slowly creep forward.

  All four of them lie on the ground.

  The brains of the one who saw the grenade are splattered on the wall.

  The neck of the one who was firing around the corner is split open and gushing blood.

  The third one is moaning, his chest caved in.

  Malak isn’t moving, his face blackened.

  I walk up to the third one and put my gun to his forehead. He moans and thrashes. I recognize his face, he helped hold me down when they stabbed my eye out. I fire.

  I check the other two. The one firing around the corner was the one who stabbed my eye out. I don’t recognize the one who saw the grenade.

  I go to Malak and kneel down and check his pulse. His eyes open.

  They go wide as he recognizes me.

  He says hoarsely, “Rouh entak.”

  I put my Uzi to his forehead. “Where’s Urdunn? Khaled.”

  He says faintly, “Fuck you.” His eyes close.

  I lower my gun.

  I shake him.

  I check his pulse.

  It’s so faint.

  I put my Uzi back at his forehead and pull the trigger, splattering his brains on the wall and on me.

  I stand up and go to the corner and say, “Shalom? Are you alive?”

  No reply.

  I peer around.

  Two Israeli soldiers, a boy and a girl, lay across the hall by a door, dead.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Slikha.”

  I go to the door they’re in front of and go inside.

  Chapter 89

  MRR

  MRR

  MRR

  The prime minister, Mazal Ravid, lies on the bed, asleep, a white sheet covering all but his face, with a breathing tube coming out of his mouth.

  MRR

  MRR

  MRR

  I walk over to the bed and look down at him.

  MRR

  MRR

  I’ve seen him on the television a hundred times. There was that press conference when a reporter asked him about me and he laughed.