“Someone, get up here!” he cried, “I’ll give you a boost so you can reach the tower!”
The Arab who’d been about to punch him climbed onto the roof of the van. The Israeli stooped and wove his hands together. The Arab used his hands as a step and, on the count of three, the Israeli hoisted him upwards.
“Gilead! Don’t move! You’ll only cut yourself further!”
The Palestinian reached as high as he could, cursing slightly as his skin scraped the concrete. His fingers just managed to catch the lip of the platform and, with a powerful heave, he hauled himself up, scrabbling with his feet.
“Don’t worry Gilead!” he gasped in Hebrew. “I’m almost there, motek!”
A moment later he was beside the boy. There was a flash as he pulled out a large pocket knife and severed the boy’s T-shirt in two — it had been hopelessly snagged on a vicious-looking hook. Using the fabric to cover Gilead’s wound, he removed his own shirt and wrapped it round the child.
“What’s happening? What are you doing?” the mother called up.
Without answering, the Arab crouched and gently steered the boy past the worn iron rails. He stroked his forehead and winked at him. At a signal from the Israeli, who had divined his intentions, he pushed the boy over the ledge, using his shirt as a makeshift sling. Clutching the sleeves as tightly as he could, he lowered the boy until he was within reach of the Jew. “You can let go,” the Israeli called. Moments later the boy was being hugged by his mother.
The crowd applauded. Gilead and his mother were being ushered off the field where an ambulance stood waiting to rush them to a clinic.
Rami and Yossi declared the game a draw and agreed to meet in four weeks time. The crowd, too, was quickly dispersing, in a good-humoured mood now that the boy had been saved. The Jews and Arabs weren’t friendly with each other, but the desire to fight had died completely.
Each side put its flag away, possibly out of respect for the other.
The Israelis were drinking sodas at the makolet. No one had spoken since they’d left the field.
“I know what’s in that hangar,” Ilan finally spoke, motioning to the building across the street from them.
“What?” the others asked.
“It’s where they hide those people who think that one kind gesture can make a difference. The incident today doesn’t change anything. Hamas is still firing missiles.”
The others nodded and continued drinking.
The Palestinians were drinking soda on Al-Wad Road. They’d been deathly silent since they’d left the field.
“I know what’s behind that doorway,” Abdul finally spoke, motioning to the building across the lane from them.
“What?” the others asked.
“It’s where they stow those idiots who think that one kind act can bring about peace. The incident today doesn’t change anything. The Jews are still dropping bombs on Gaza.”
The others nodded and continued drinking.
Chapter Seventeen
Avi squeezed his knees together so his sister could get by. She’d gone to the kitchen to check the coffee and returned with a plate of cookies and chocolate. This was the first time she’d invited guests to supper and she wanted to get everything just right. And, in spite of the fact the chicken had been burned and the tomatoes had been hard and the rice had been soggy, the meal had been delicious. Although Rachel and Dror had been married just three weeks, their home had a nice, lived-in quality. It was tiny, yes, but cozy and hospitable.
“We’ll have coffee at the table after the news,” she said.
“Great,” Dror drawled, motioning for silence. The TV played an awful scene. There had been a suicide bombing in Iraq, in an outdoor market packed with civilians. The footage showed bodies scattered at random: they looked like bundles of tattered rags. Three vehicles and a stall were in flames and firemen were fighting to contain the blaze, as medics were rushing around to treat the wounded. Dozens of people were in shock: a young boy was wandering around with a look of confusion, limping heavily and trailing blood. The announcer said the bomb was the work of insurgents who, in a video broadcast, swore to continue attacking until America quit the region.
There was silence as everyone absorbed these details. They were reminded of attacks they themselves had witnessed. Since their arrival in Israel, their city had been a magnet for violence: on buses, in cafes, in restaurants, and thoroughfares. One hundred and forty people had been blown to bits, and 1,700 had been badly wounded. And throughout Israel, 300 more had been killed, with thousands injured and traumatized for life. Most victims had been ordinary civilians whose only crime had been that they were going about their business, shopping for groceries, eating with their kids, or riding one of the public buses. At the height of the bombings, the Greenbaums had driven everywhere and tried to stay away from crowded places. And still there’d been some very close calls. One of Dan’s friends had been eating falafel, only to lose his leg to a bombing. And then there were the bombs that hadn’t gone off, dozens and dozens of thwarted attacks, reminding Israelis that death was always possible. They understood the trauma in Iraq all too well.
Shosh and Rachel began debating. They raised all the usual points: how these attackers were animals, how they were desperate, how they were killing their own, how they hated the invasion, how the wall was a blessing, how it created anger, how these people were savage, how they were oppressed.
Avi thought he was going to go crazy. His fear pinned him to the couch, the endless arguing stirred his nausea (his sister’s cooking didn’t help), and the thought kept registering that this violence, this insanity, was what men imagined they had to do.
Mercifully, the item ended and scenes from a World Cup match flooded the screen. The sight of all those athletes in motion, their movements fast, precise, and graceful, was a welcome change from the previous footage. Dror and Shosh discussed the merits of each team. They were smiling now and reaching for the cookies, the heat from the first debate seemingly forgotten.
But still Avi felt like hell.
Moussa was sitting on his sister’s couch, watching the footage with a raw feeling in his gut. They were eating at Alisha’s for the first time since the wedding; Ahmed couldn’t come because he was receiving new produce. The food had been tasty, exactly like his mother’s — no wonder as Nadira had taught her daughter to cook. Sayed had been the perfect host, even if he proved a little too pious, punctuating his speech with religious expressions and referring too frequently to the sayings of the Prophet. No doubt these words were full of wisdom, but Moussa preferred his own brand of wisdom: mathematics.
They were drinking coffee and watching the news. The living room was tiny and they were all on the sofa, watching the horrific images unfold. There had been another bombing in Iraq. There were bodies everywhere, fires were raging, and people were screaming and tending the wounded. His mother and Alisha began to argue.
“If the U.S. just left Iraq, we wouldn’t see these scenes,” Alisha said. “The same way there would be no martyrs if the Jews were willing to give us some justice.”
“But these bombers,” Nadira answered, “are killing their own people, and Hamas murders Jewish women and children….”
“These people are doing their duty,” Alisha said, mildly but with a note of rebuke. “They are dealing with the enemy and spreading the truth of our religion. They do so violently because it is the only language our enemies understand.”
“But they kill the innocent,” Nadira growled. “In their pursuit of justice they commit unspeakable crimes. I don’t fault them for their anger, but I despise their methods. If they asked my sons to become shaheed, I would slam the door to my house on their faces. I did not raise my children so that they could kill and maim so viciously….”
Moussa thought he was going to go crazy. Whereas his mother and sister were flushe
d with anger, and Sayed’s expression was one of stone, he was sitting there like a pile of spent ashes. This endless talk, too, about right and wrong as the TV bombarded them with scenes of innocent people dying, it had him spinning in utter confusion. And the thought kept eating at him that this violence, this insanity, was what men imagined they had to do.
Happily the scene changed suddenly and the screen was full of bodies in motion. Highlights from that day’s soccer match were being played, and Moussa almost cried with relief as the TV provided him with scenes of life, and not half-charred corpses. His mother, too, was smiling, and even Alisha seemed to appreciate the change, the heat from their argument forgotten.
But still Moussa felt like crap.
Avi was on a bus. The radio upfront was broadcasting the World Cup match. The bus was moving quickly, even on the turns, causing passengers to bump against each other: it was packed. He’d given up his seat to a frail, old lady and was swaying back and forth as the bus sped forward. He was wondering if he would be on time for his appointment.
Why did the man attract his notice? He was a small guy with non-descript features, dressed in simple clothes: dark pants, black shoes, and an overcoat. He was dark complexioned and neutral-looking….
Wait. The overcoat. That was what had drawn his attention. It was 42 degrees outside and the bus was sweltering. So why was he dressed in such a getup?
Avi studied the man with mounting tension. His eyes were glazed over and he was chanting softly. The coat was tight around his chest, as if something strained against its fabric. What? No, it couldn’t be….
His eye traveled down the man’s squat body. There. Two filaments were attached to a remote he was gripping. They were running up along his wrist and into the sleeve on his coal black coat. With a thrill of horror he realized they extended up his arm, down his chest, and into the object that was stretching the coat’s fabric. This was no simple object but….
He pressed a button to signal his stop. But the vehicle picked up speed and rattled by the next bus shelter. A woman waiting for the bus protested, little realizing how lucky she was.
Avi wanted to warn the riders. He wanted to reach the front of the bus and inform the driver they had a killer on board. But his mouth was dry and not a word would come out. And as much as he tried to push his way forward, in a way that wouldn’t provoke the bomber, the crowd was no more yielding than a concrete wall.
The bomber suddenly looked his way. His eyes lunged straight at Avi’s: they were pitch, pitch black and drained of mercy. There was no bargaining with eyes like these. If Death were a person, these eyes would be his. And they were shining with laughter: because Avi was scared, he wouldn’t dare fight back. The bomber could take his time. In fact, he could postpone for an eternity and Avi wouldn’t budge. But of course he had a schedule to keep. That’s why he climbed to his feet and, pressing a button, shouted the words, “Allahu al Akbar!” There was a click, a roar, and a blinding light….
Avi screamed himself awake. His sheets were soaked top to bottom in sweat.
Moussa emerged from his bedroom. There were voices on the floor below and he thought he heard his mother crying. He descended the stairs two at a time, and, at the foot of them, saw his family had gathered: Ahmed, his mother, Alisha, his jadda, and even Sayed were standing in a tight little group. All of them had their hands tied behind them and were being led off by the Israeli police.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Don’t speak to them,” a sinewy cop responded. “Under the state’s anti-terrorist laws, I hereby declare them under arrest.”
“On what charges?”
“Conspiracy.”
“That’s ridiculous! What evidence do you have?”
“The strongest evidence,” the officer smirked.
“Bombs, like the ones you said my father was importing?”
“It’s worse than that. Much, much worse,” the officer snarled, while delivering a slap to Ahmed’s head.
“What? Tell me!”
“You can’t see it for yourself? It’s clear to a blind man! These people are angry. They’re burning with rage. And that’s why we’re going to lock them away. If we lock up all the angry Arabs, we Israelis will have nothing to fear.”
The officer nodded to his men. Using their rifle butts they prodded the family — his mother, sister and jadda included — and drove them toward the front door. Just outside stood a fortified van, emblazoned with a Jewish star and with bars covering its doors and windows. As his family was herded past the threshold, no one looked back at him when he called.
The officer was about to leave, but Moussa ran to him and grabbed him by the sleeve. The man wheeled on him with a menacing look.
“We have a schedule to keep. Don’t interfere.”
“I won’t. But I demand that you arrest me. Wherever they’re going, I’m going too.”
The officer drew back and grinned. He approached the door and practically roared, “He wants to come along! He wants to be arrested!” Hearing his words, his colleagues broke into laughter and his family started giggling, too. Soon Ahmed couldn’t stand, his laughter was so strong, and tears were streaming down his mother’s cheeks. Neighbours, too, were looking out their windows, their laughter adding to the general mirth.
The officer turned and shrugged his shoulders, stifling his laughter, as if to say, “Your request is utterly preposterous.” Then abruptly he slammed the door and….
Moussa screamed himself awake. His teeth ached from clenching them so hard and, in his wildness, he’d overturned the table beside him.
Chapter Eighteen
Avi ducked behind the divide. The balls were bouncing off its concrete surface and he could see red flecks painting the air. There was no way the shooter could actually hit him, but still he was firing, for the sheer thrill of it. And if Avi weren’t careful, he would be pinned to the spot and a second “terrorist” would finish him off. He didn’t want to look at his jumpsuit. The whole of it was steeped in red, a sign he’d been killed in every match that day.
“Avi! Over here! Crawl forward on your belly!”
This ordeal had been Ilan’s idea. It was the first day of their summer break and he’d wanted to celebrate by playing paintball. Before Avi could say no, he’d phoned up guys from their soccer team and quickly won the lot of them over. They had assembled by the school and taken a bus to Talpiot. Some had been to the War-Zone before and, as a way of selling it to the rest of the gang, kept saying how realistic it was, how you really felt you were involved in combat.
That was the problem. Avi was thrilled with the jumpsuit and a plastic helmet with a full-face visor. When the clerk pulled out a gun, though, and snapped the CO2 bottle on, he’d begun to feel a touch uneasy. And when he’d attached the hopper, which held two hundred paintballs, and fired a round to test that the weapon was working, he’d felt his fear grip hold of him as always.
Worse was to follow.
In the ensuing matches, he’d barely fired his gun. Whereas Ilan was burning to hunt the “Arabs” — they’d divided themselves into Golani and Hezbollah — Avi’s instinct was to hide and duck, to retreat as soon as the enemy closed in. And when the time came to squeeze the trigger, he’d been so nervous with the cumbersome weapon that he’d fired at everything, except his target. Twice he had “killed” his own team members.
“Just crawl forward!” Ilan urged. “Four of them are bunched together. I can’t move in until you give me cover. I’d ask Erez, but he’s been taken out.”
Taken out. Cover. He hated these words. He’d heard them spoken on TV and in movies, he’d watched as actors had killed and died, and he’d cheered when the hero, a strapping guy with wavy hair, had emerged victorious from his struggle with evil, wounded in the arm and limping, sure, but strong enough to bounce back in an action-packed sequel. But the r
ealization had taken root over time that these words, when uttered, meant that death was near.
“Watch it! Yakovi’s above us! He has a fix on our position!”
Paintballs exploded to Avi’s right. Panic-stricken he crawled over to Ilan, who was cursing softly and shooting back. The guy in front was firing, too, and a pellet went whizzing over Avi’s right ear.
“Through the window, quickly!” Ilan urged, motioning to a hole in a nearby wall of concrete. Desperate to escape, Avi flew through this hole and landed safely in the space beyond. Ilan didn’t make it: as he’d tried to follow in Avi’s wake, Yakovi hit him in the small of the back.
“That leaves just Avi!” Yakovi crowed.
“What about Aryeh?” Ilan demanded. “And I just saw Boaz….”
“They’re both finished.”
Avi ran the length of the space and reached a stairwell that led to the roof. Climbing it two steps at a time, he emerged at the top and searched for somewhere to hide. There was nothing. This was why they avoided the roof: it exposed you to fire from three different points.
What was wrong with him? Since the game had started he’d done nothing right. Okay, the first hit had been a surprise, the way it had stained his leg a deep crimson. His hair had practically stood on end and he was sure that he’d actually been injured. But the capsule had left a welt, that’s all. So why had he kept flinching and bolting, instead of joining in his team’s operations? Why weren’t they bothered when the capsules hit, while he kept thinking it marked the end of the world?
Why? The answer was clear: his nerves were made of cheese, not steel.
“He’s on the roof!” Dov cried, gloating.
“We’ll finish him quickly,” Itamar said. “He’s trapped and won’t put up a struggle.”
“I’m glad he’s not with us,” Yakovi chimed in.
These last words struck Avi like a slap in the face. His posture straightened and his face turned red. These guys would never want him on their team. And who could blame them? He’d let them down since they’d started the game, always worrying about saving his skin instead of acting with the group in mind. If this game had been a combat situation, if the guns had been real, if the capsules had been bullets, Ilan would be dead and all because of him. What gave him the right to behave like this, to squirm at every suggestion of danger? Why was he allowed to give into his fear? Why was he behaving like an overgrown child when the man he would become was pleading to take over…?
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