He was so high up. And the only way back, the only way to escape, was to hurl himself forward, fly through the air, and drop and drop with all that weight upon him. To crash into the water, and, for an interval (that would last forever), to endanger everything that he held dear by surrendering any sense of control. It was the one and only way.
His fear was staring at him and it resembled … a teenaged boy who, while his brother sweated and manned the ramparts, was playing his music as he stretched out in bed. His fear was him. His fear was Avi Greenbaum.
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”
Do what? he wanted to scream at them. What the hell did they want him to do? But he knew. It was obvious.
“Do it! Do it!” they continued to scream as stood cringing on the platform. He was scowling when the realization dawned on him: Feinberg was no sadist but a passionate teacher. And the voices weren’t bludgeons; they were actually a kind of padding. His friends were demonstrating that they would never let him down, that they would stand by him always … on one condition: he had to jump.
His legs were pushing forward. Even as his fear tried to wrestle him back, the wolf, the girl, the religious Jew, he was running, he was leaping, he was falling, falling, falling….
As he splashed and struggled against the water, and his muscles ached and his lungs caught fire, he felt released and lighter than air, for the first time since he’d last played soccer.
“… Kol hakevod Avi!”
“Harder! You can do better than that!”
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”
Moussa detested Omar, his phys. ed. teacher. The guy claimed he wanted to toughen them up, but he was a brute and always breathing anger. If you gave him fifty push ups or ran for an hour or lifted heavy weights, he would ask for more. “More!” he would yell. “So far you’ve given me nothing!” And today was no different; in fact it was worse.
“That’s better! Dig deeper! Put your very soul into your blows!”
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”
He had been part of the Jordanian army, serving in one of its commando units. He’d often describe a “game” that he’d been put through. One of his trainers had been a professional boxer, and as a crucial part of their combat training, they’d been required to go a round with this man — “An animal,” Omar had called him. Although equipped with helmets and the thickest padding, these bouts had been hell. The hard part hadn’t been taking the punches, though, never mind that his punch was like the blow from a hammer; no, the toughest part had been finding the strength to punch back. “Sure,” Omar said, “it’s no big deal to throw a punch; the real trick is to throw a punch with conviction.” His own trainer had been merciless and taught by example: if you couldn’t punch with feeling, he would take you apart. “He helped us find our anger,” he explained. “And not anger which flies off in a hundred directions, but focused, distilled, purified anger, easily the deadliest force in existence.”
“That’s it! I felt that blow! Now you’re getting the hang of it! Again!”
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”
They were in the school courtyard; Omar had brought boxing gloves and protective gear. After marking off a circle with a piece of chalk, he donned a pair of gloves and “invited” Amir to put the padding on. After punching the air a couple of times, he motioned his opponent to do his worst. A fiery kid, Amir lunged at Omar. While Omar easily evaded his blows, he praised Amir for his “fire” and gave him some pointers. On rejoining his classmates, Amir glowed with pride.
“That’s it! Wonderful! Do you see how your anger can be a thing of beauty? One more time!”
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”
It had been the same story with everyone else, Suleiman, Sami, Anwar, and now Mahmoud. Each had been able to channel his anger, an element that Moussa seemed to have in short supply — and he was next. The chest pad was strapped to him, the helmet with the grill was fixed to his skull, and two large boxing gloves were weighing down his hands. They looked almost comical, like the gloves a cartoon character might wear. But their leather was cracked and the left one bore a stain on its surface: blood. And then there was the terrible smell. It was a mix of leather and sweat and … rage.
“Alright. Well done. Take a seat. Who’s next?”
“Moussa,” Amir said.
“Stand up Moussa. Show the group what you’re made of.”
With a sigh, Moussa climbed to his feet. He wasn’t scared — there was nothing to be scared of. But he did feel … empty. The fire he had seen in his classmates’ eyes? The anger with which they’d launched themselves, recklessly, lustfully, against the snarling Omar, as if they were Saladin’s troops battling crusaders? This he didn’t feel.
“Step into my home,” Omar joked, motioning to the lines on the pavement.
He was telling himself that his ab was in jail, his jadda had suffered indescribable woes, Douad might never move back home, their store would be searched before long, and as he stood there waiting to be struck by lightning, bad things were happening throughout the PA, the Jews were bashing away at his people. With all these gnawing thoughts to fuel him, he still couldn’t awaken his rage.
“Come at me!” Omar roared. “Do your worst!”
“Go Moussa!” Amir cried.
Moving forward, he struck with his right. Omar barely moved and he missed by a mile.
“That’s it?” Omar asked, with a look of amazement. “That’s everything you have? Hit me! Go on the attack!”
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”
The chalk lines on the pavement defined a separate realm. Even though Omar was only inches away, Moussa was alone, without a friend to help him out. And the only way back, the only way to escape, was to discover something deep within him that, until that very moment, had continued to elude him.
He closed in on Omar a second time and swung.
“That was even worse than before! Maybe this will help!”
Easily, almost effortlessly, his teacher struck and knocked him clean off his feet. For what seemed like a lifetime he flew through the air. He thought that this wasn’t fair and that Omar was a jerk. This thought was quickly followed by the knowledge that the guy was going to hit him again, and again after that, until he had reduced him to nothing. Finally, just inches from hitting the ground, a voice inside was asking him why he would allow someone to insult him like this and wasn’t he sick of feeling empty and denying himself entry to the ranks of men? Where was the virtue and profit in that?
When he hit the ground, his classmates groaned. Some were on the verge of jeering. Omar, too, was about to turn his back, as if Moussa weren’t a worthy target, as if he was hopelessly lost to the group. He struggled to his feet. An unfamiliar heat was rising in him.
“Are you ready to strike for real?” Omar sneered. “If so, do your worst. Otherwise get out of this ring!”
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”
He lunged at Omar, with real spring in his step. He was prepared for another pathetic blow and was shocked when Moussa punched with such force that he staggered back a pace or two. More blows followed. Moussa was in a dream-like state, dodging and feinting and striking with rage, the delicious rage of a lion in action.
When he finally emerged from this state of possession, and saw that Omar was practically beaming, and heard his classmates chanting his name, he felt more weighted than he had in ages.
Perhaps there was some hope for him yet.
Chapter Fourteen
Avi was flushed. He’d finished playing a Klezmer tune and the guests were going wild with applause. With tears in her eyes, Rachel thanked him for the song, saying she’d never heard anything so perfect. Even Dror was moved: his floating eye was fluttering in its socket. Meanwhile Dan was cracking jokes, most of them involving the suit he was wearing. His paren
ts, for their part, were chatting together and seemed like a regular married couple: one would never guess they lived apart from each other.
Everything looked so clean and sparkling. The banquet room was filled with bright white chairs and tables set with gleaming cutlery. There were floor-to-ceiling windows on all four sides, which afforded a panoramic view of the city, from the Knesset to the downtown core.
Avi had moved over to the windows and was enjoying the view. He allowed his eye to wander east and to the desert not so far in the distance: the sun was setting and the sky was pink. The air about him was filled with smells: roast chicken, wine, perfume, and chocolate. A band was playing softly in the background, a medley of Israeli and American tunes, with bursts of conversation and laughter breaking through. And everyone was smiling, Rachel especially. For a moment Zohara came to mind. He’d thought about asking her to come to the wedding but, recalling their last talk, decided it was pointless.
“Can you believe Rachel’s married?” Avi asked his brother, to distract himself from thinking of Zohara’s smile.
“Not yet. I need more wine to get used to the idea.”
“Mom’s in tears.”
“Of course she is. You know why?”
“Because her daughter’s all grown up?”
“No. Because the speeches are starting.”
Moussa threw himself into a chair. He’d been dancing furiously for the last half hour and was glad the band was taking a break. He had to rest if he was going to last all evening.
He pulled at his dress shirt. Like the rest of his suit it had been bought the day before and still felt somewhat stiff. He turned to the hall’s picture windows and looked out at the city. The hall was on the top of a fancy hotel and the view was a breathtaking. To his left was the Dome of the Rock and, further west, the Jewish part of town, the downtown midrachov, the synagogue, and the Knesset — the place where the Jews passed their terrible laws.
“Did you get any cake?” Douad sank into a chair beside him. He was perspiring even more than Moussa and smelled of cigarettes, aftershave, and garlic. He was having the time of his life. Claiming Canadians were kind but far too reserved, he’d been maximizing his trip back home by visiting friends and staying out late. And from the time the groom had cut the cake with a sword, Douad had been dancing like a madman on a table.
“I’ve had three pieces,” Moussa answered. “But I intend to have three more.”
“Leave room for the halawa. It’s not as good as Hannah’s but it’s tasty just the same. It’s too bad she wasn’t able to make it.”
Moussa nodded and took in the room. While the crowd contained some two hundred people there were lots of faces missing. Some relatives lived in West Bank towns, like Abu Dis, Jahalin, and Wadi Qadum. These places weren’t far from the city, but they could have been in Syria for all the Israelis cared. While some guests had been admitted past the wall, others had been turned back and forced to go home.
He tried to picture it, his relatives approaching the checkpoint. Yusuf was among them, full of tales about his stubborn mule, and Hanna with her halawa, and Hamid who practised magic tricks. All would have been dressed in brand new clothes and laden down with food and gifts, and maybe the odd instrument. They certainly hadn’t carried any bombs. And yet, after waiting hours, until the food had spoiled, they’d been turned back for “security reasons.”
“Some things never change,” Douad said, lighting up a cigarette. “It’s been two years since my last trip home and still there’s been no progress. But let’s think about more cheerful things,” he went on, helping himself to a Jordanian nut.
“I can’t,” Moussa said.
“Why?”
“Because the speeches are starting.”
They had heard from just about everyone, an uncle, Dan, Shosh, Dror, Dror’s father, Dror’s mother, and now their dad, the father of the bride, was speaking.
Mr. Greenbaum looked vulnerable as he stood up front with a microphone in hand. Although he didn’t stick out physically perhaps, he did seem different from the Israelis.
“Thank you for coming to this happy affair. It’s not every day a father has the joy of watching his daughter get married, especially to a mensch like Dror, and I’d like to briefly mark the occasion.”
His father spoke conventionally for a minute, thanking the guests who had come from far away, and telling Rachel that her marriage to Dror didn’t mean she could vanish from their lives; on the contrary, she was expected to stay in touch all the more. Then his remarks took on a very personal tone.
“I know a lot of you wonder,” he said, fastening his gaze on a crystal chandelier, “why it is I live apart from my family. Some of you may have reached the conclusion that my wife and kids don’t mean a lot to me or that I have no interest in the Jewish state. Without going into detail, I insist this isn’t so. When I returned to Canada a while back, it was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. And ever since I’ve been lonely on my own and felt guilty that I couldn’t bear things here.
“And that’s the problem. I don’t know what it is about this place, but it requires people to be exceptional. Some tough souls can live up to the call, and even thrive in the process — my wife’s a good example of that; others can’t. It became clear to me, after I’d lived here for a while, that I belonged to the second group and not the first.
“That being said, at my lowest moments, the thought always cheered me that I have three children living here in Eretz Yisrael, and that my efforts back in Canada help make this possible. When people ask me years from now what my greatest lifelong feat will have been, I will point to Rachel, Dan, and Avi, and perhaps to a new generation of Greenbaums, and say, ‘Look there! Consider my Israeli family, heroes one and all!’And on that happy note, I’ll let you get on with the meal. Please enjoy the rest of the evening. L’chaim!”
The applause was thunderous. Avi’s tears were flowing freely. Under normal circumstances, he would have hid them from his family, from Dan especially who hated baring his emotions. But all of them were crying, his brother included; in fact, Dan was crying most of all.
Almost everyone had spoken: an uncle, Ahmed, Douad, Sayed, Sayed’s father, Sayed’s brother, and now it was their father’s turn.
Tariq wasn’t there in person, of course. Sayed was on the podium, holding a sheet of paper. After explaining to the guests that he’d received this letter in the mail, he called for silence and started reading in a sonorous tone.
“As-salamu alaykum honoured guests and kinsmen. For reasons far beyond my control, I cannot celebrate Alisha’s wedding celebration with you. I want her to know, however, that I am sailing above al-Quds for joy because the man she is marrying this day is a fount of piety, discretion, fearlessness, respect, and, dearest to my heart, honour. May this couple enjoy many happy years together and bear many children who will dignify our families.
“To my other children, Douad, Ahmed, and Moussa. I acknowledge that I am a man of fiery temper and have subjected you to its flames too often. My criticisms might lead you to suppose that I take no pride in you and your achievements. If you think this way, the fault is mine. I never expressed satisfaction, when Douad was accepted into engineering, when Ahmed forsook his own education and ran our business with exceptional skill, or when my youngest son Moussa proved his mind is sharper than Saladin’s saber. For my silence in the face of your talents, I am ashamed and humbly beg your forgiveness.
“When I die and the angels ask why they should open heaven’s gates on my behalf, what will I reply to them? Will I speak of my own actions? These will only weight my soul with stones! Will I point to my prison term, as if the charge brought against me is meritorious in the eyes of God? I cannot believe the gates will open for such schemes. I will point to my children and ask the angels to admit me through their merit. I am confident that, when they hear my plea, a trumpet will
sound and heaven will receive me.
“And so I end this wedding invocation. May all of us know only peace and joy all our days. Fisehatak!”
The applause was thunderous. Moussa didn’t know what to do with his hands, he was squeezing them so fiercely to prevent himself from crying. His brothers helped him, Ahmed by seizing onto his left, and Douad by seizing onto his right, so that the three of them formed a lasting chain, one that time and distance would never corrupt.
“I leave tomorrow,” Avi’s dad told him. By now most of the guests had left and the staff was putting the room in order. The band had long finished playing and was packing their equipment away. Rachel and Dror were getting ready to leave — they were flying to Paris the following day. Dan was talking to Dror’s relatives, and Shosh was giving Rachel last minute advice.
“You can’t stay longer?”
“There’s a trial back home that requires my attention.”
“When will you be back?”
“As soon as I can. But maybe you can visit me when school lets out.”
“That sounds great.”
“I’ll discuss it with your mother. In the mean time….”
His father couldn’t finish speaking. Not wanting his son to see him in tears, he turned away and headed to the washroom.
For all his pride in his three children, he seemed the loneliest man in the world.
“What a night,” Douad exclaimed. “I haven’t had fun like that in years.”
“Is Canada so boring?” Moussa teased.
“It is very boring. But that’s why it’s so pleasant.”
It was getting on to 3:00 a.m. The pair were sitting on the penthouse terrace, surveying the city that lay at their feet. The guests had left half an hour earlier and the staff was returning the hall to normal. Ahmed was downstairs hailing a cab for their mother and jadda. Moussa wasn’t tired at all, despite the hour and his constant dancing. If anything he felt energetic and was intent on watching the sun come up.
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