Martyrs’ Crossing

by Amy Wilentz

  The woman was soaked. She seemed to Doron to shake slightly or to vibrate, but maybe that was just the storm plowing and harrowing and exploding around them. She sat down and bent her head over the papers and her child. Doron wished she were not the enemy.

  • • •

  GEORGE ARRIVED at the hospital just in time to scrub up, and the procedure went perfectly. The bubble pushed up into the patient’s arteries like a worm digging a tunnel. And there it all was on the monitor, George the Worm, unblocking the flow. It was elegant, angioplasty—far better than bloody bypass, which he had observed many times. He liked that shred of distance that angioplasty left him; the illusion, with the monitor and the catheter, that you were not deep inside the bloody workings of another human being. No spurting.

  He had one last appointment before he left for the day, with Carol Gerstman’s husband. Carol, his patient, was a humorous person, always pleasant even when she was sick, but Joe was a little touchy, and he had the unfortunate American habit of discussing politics as if he were sure you agreed with him. George went into his office and clipped some pictures up on the light walls so Joe could inspect the work George had done for Carol in the cath room last week. He’d update Joe on Carol’s progress.

  The nurse let Joe in. He looked as if he had undergone the procedure, not his wife. He was pale and damp, and smelled of cigarette smoke. He was carrying a newspaper folded under his arm, and he looked at George with a knot of concern between his eyes.

  For some of his patients, it was hard to trust a doctor with a foreign name. George knew that. Joe was Jewish, which probably didn’t help the situation. Although Joe had always been correct with George, even genial, George continued to have just that little suspicion, and there was something in Joe’s face, now, that got George’s attention. He hoped what he saw was just the stress of Carol’s illness.

  “It went perfectly, Joe,” George said. “Perfectly. You know that. She’s fine. You can relax for a good long while now.” Joe smiled wanly. Be hearty, man, George thought. Be proud. Be relieved.

  “It was a textbook procedure, which is rare. Here’s what we did.” George beckoned to Joe, who allowed himself to be toured around the X rays, as George explained each one. Joe didn’t seem to be focusing, but then again, the explanations were a bit technical.

  “Uh-hunh,” Joe said, as they finished with each picture.

  Then they sat down. George had no family photographs on his desk. His only decorations were a single piece of Palestinian embroidery on the wall and his certificates from Harvard. The other diplomas and certificates he had stuck in a drawer. On the floor, in an unused corner, there was a small Shirvan carpet from his father’s lost house in Jerusalem, a real jewel.

  Joe picked up his newspaper and looked up from it at George with pale, beseeching eyes. George waited for the unavoidable questions about prognosis. He did not like this part.

  “How do you explain this?” Joe held up a section of the paper and whacked at one story with the back of his hand.

  “What?” George was taken aback.

  “Look,” Joe said. He threw the paper onto George’s desk.

  George looked at the upper-right-hand column. Oh, yes, the two Israeli settlers who had been killed in a drive-by shooting.

  “Yes,” George said.

  “A man and his wife. Young people.”

  Joe’s wife was sick, for Chrissakes, and this is what he wants to talk about? Well, maybe that was the explanation for the outburst—maybe Joe was trying to take his mind off her condition.

  “I didn’t shoot them, Joe,” he said. He tried to make his voice gentle.

  “No, but you think it’s okay?” Joe looked at him. “How can you go around saving people’s lives and then think it’s okay to do this?”

  The picture was gruesome: a machine-gunned car, blood, an arm dangling out the window.

  “I didn’t say it’s okay. It’s complicated,” George said. I will be patient and kind, he thought.

  “Being dead is not too complicated, is it?”

  “People get killed in wars, and not just soldiers.” Oh, he’d said that so many times. Everything about The Cause was repetitive. He felt a wave of fatigue. Thank God he didn’t have to live in Palestine. He remembered Marina on the roof, bending over the coffee.

  “A war?” Joe was plainly outraged. “Killing people driving their car home from the supermarket?”

  “To the people who did this, those two were not just driving their car home. They are part of an occupying force. The settler certainly thought he was fighting a war.”

  “And now they’re dead.”

  “Yes.”

  George took it back, a little. “I don’t mean ‘that’s okay.’ You’re right. It’s dreadful. But that’s what happens. They came to live in a place for political reasons; and they’re not wanted there. They bring their children into this place, they put their children in danger by deciding to live in a place where they are not wanted. Where they’re seen as the advance troops of the enemy.”

  “Oh, come on. You guys just hate them because they’re Israeli.”

  “We would hate anyone who took our land away from us. We believe we are at war—that’s why we’re negotiating a peace. You can’t have a war and then get squeamish because people die. The Israelis never said sorry when they blew up the British, and why should they have?”

  “You don’t even really believe in peace, do you?”

  George felt defensive.

  “I believe in peace, but this is a loser’s peace,” George said. “It’s corrupt, the people who are doing it are corrupt.” Said it so many times; it was his refrain. He picked up his prescription pad and put it down again. “Victory is for winners, peace is for losers. The only reason the Chairman wants this peace is because he’s old and tired and desperate.”

  “Better to just go on shooting innocent people and tossing crippled men off boats, and like that, right?” Joe asked. “Is that your argument?”

  “Come on, Joe, you know me.” George was truly appalled. He knew these feelings lurked out there, but he’d rarely had them addressed to him in person. He preferred being criticized in print, where it was less emotionally immediate, and he could respond logically and calmly. “You know I don’t believe in cruelty.”

  “I don’t know anything about you except that you’re one of the best cardiologists in the world.” Joe was standing now, holding his newspaper as if it were Exhibit A. “I don’t want to fight with you. Actually, I thought you’d be as revolted as I am by this attack.”

  “You did.”

  “I did. I hoped, anyway. But I won’t pursue it, George,” Joe said. He looked down at the Shirvan. “You’re too important in my life right now for me to feel comfortable saying what I really think. Maybe some other time.”

  “It’s okay. I think you’ve made your feelings clear,” George said. He hoped he didn’t sound huffy.

  “Sorry if I’ve upset you,” Joe said.

  “Not at all, believe me. I’m used to it.” George felt Joe was now trying to placate his wife’s doctor. That he was nervous. Poor guy.

  “I know you’re not well, either,” Joe said. “I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “I’m fine.” George bristled. He looked up from his desk. “Just fine.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear.” Joe picked up his coat. “Carol was worried.”

  “You tell her not to worry,” George said. “I’ll tell her not to worry. She has enough to worry about without adding me to the list.” The two men shook hands.

  “Thanks for everything, George,” Joe said. He walked out of the office, his shoulders drooping.

  Down in the parking lot, George walked through the slush to his reserved space, but his car wasn’t there. He stood for a moment in wonder. Had it been stolen? Impossible. The locks and alarms on it were too good, the parking lot too well protected for a car thief to consider. He was befuddled. He felt lost and stranded. How would he get home? He would
have to call a cab. He turned back to the hospital entrance, resigned, when he remembered. Of course. He had parked the car elsewhere. After his panic of the morning, he hadn’t wanted it sitting in the space marked DR. GEORGE RAAD. Now, the car was anonymous. But lost. Lost in the Peter Bent’s enormous visitors’ lot. What an ass he was. George the Worm. The intended victim, indeed. An old ass. Was this how he seemed to Ahmed’s boys? Worse, was this how he seemed to Ahmed?

  • • •

  DORON HELD ON to the phone like a lifeline. The boy didn’t look so bad, but he was straining for breath.

  “See?” his mother said. “See?” She tugged on Doron’s sleeve. “It’s getting worse, it’s getting worse. I can’t wait for your ambulance.” She had heard him talking about the ambulance to Zvili, in Hebrew. She understood some words.

  Doron knew the issue was even less clear. It wasn’t about the ambulance; the ambulance was for his injured man. But what if he couldn’t get headquarters to let her in? The computer said she was the wife of Hassan Hajimi, a terrorist who was in jail on the Israeli side. So? If he couldn’t get her through, then she and the boy would be stuck, ambulance or no ambulance. He trusted her feelings about the boy’s condition. She knew, after all, didn’t she? This was a medical crisis, not a terrorist ruse. Even a terrorist’s kid can’t help being sick.

  She was murmuring to the child; Doron couldn’t hear the words. She hardly looked up. Headquarters had put Doron on hold again; they had a lot to deal with at all the checkpoints, but still. He kept having to identify himself and explain the urgency of the predicament. How many times did they have to hear it? He was listening to computerized ragtime. She ran her fingers through the boy’s hair.

  With one ear on the phone, Doron turned to the man who had been her advocate. He was tired of the guy’s presence. “You get out, now. You’ve done your duty. Go home.” The man shrugged.

  “I’m glad you’re in, miss,” the man said to the woman, in Arabic.

  She said nothing. He shrugged again, and turned and walked away from the trailer door. Doron watched him trudge up the road toward Ramallah.

  Doron hung up and called again. On hold again, more mouse music. An operator, another operator. It was too late to get through to the normal numbers. He didn’t even know who he was waiting for. He had already ordered the fucking ambulance, he kept pointing out to whoever would listen. All he needed was permission to let the woman and her son cross over. The phone receiver felt like a toy in his hand.

  “I’ll take a taxi,” she said. “Just let me through, and I’ll take a taxi from here.” There was always a line of taxis waiting on either side of the checkpoint, even during a closure. God, he just wanted to zip her across. She was right, a taxi would be faster. Who knew when the damned ambulance would come? He had told them his man had a light injury. They were probably busy.

  Her dark eyes were imploring.

  He shook his head and pointed at the phone.

  The boy started to gasp. Her eyes widened. Doron wanted to hurl the receiver across the guardroom and watch it shatter, but instead, he sat there, mentally screaming for them to pick the fuck up. Pick it up. Pick it up. Another operator gave him a secure number to call. He scrawled it across the back of an empty cigarette pack before he dialed. It rang and rang, and then, surprise, someone picked up. They asked for the woman’s name. Which checkpoint? they asked. Shuhada, Doron said. Then there was more waiting. Finally, they came back on.

  They are not permitted to enter Israel, the voice on the other end said.

  But her papers seem in order.

  Not permitted, Lieutenant.

  But she goes back and forth all the time.

  Not during closure, the voice said. Not during this closure.

  But an ambulance is already on its way.

  Not permitted.

  The ambulance is here. Doron slammed down the phone. Lights were flashing through the slits in the guardroom. He heard a siren wailing. He stuffed the empty cigarette pack into his jacket pocket and stood.

  “I am so sorry,” he said to the woman. “They just won’t permit it. I don’t know what to say. Sorry.”

  She didn’t even look at him.

  “Where’s my injured man?” Doron asked. The men pointed. The private was standing quietly in a different corner. His wound was still bleeding—they’d hit a part of the face that bleeds profusely even when the injury is not serious.

  “Your ambulance is here, go on.” The private started moving out delicately, as if he thought any motion would increase the bleeding.

  Doron heard a low voice.

  “And what ambulance are we going to take?” It was the first time she looked directly into his eyes.

  He looked back at her. What was he going to do with her?

  The child looked up at him from her lap with panicky eyes.

  Oh, God.

  He watched her fumble with the inhaler again. It never seemed to work.

  “Lieutenant,” she said.

  The child was turning blue.

  “Okay. Okay. I’m letting you through,” he said to the woman. “Come on, get up.” He gathered up her jacket and documents and the inhaler. She picked up the boy, who hung limp in her arms. Doron looked at him and felt the panic gather in his stomach like a hard ball.

  Zvili blocked their way.

  “Move, Sergeant,” Doron said.

  “No,” said Zvili.

  “No?” Doron said. “No?”

  “The woman is the wife of a terrorist,” Zvili said.

  “Move, Zvili,” Doron said.

  “No,” Zvili said, planting his feet at both sides of the doorjamb. “She could be a part of some plan. What do we know? Headquarters said she can’t come in; I heard you talking to them. You can’t let her in.”

  “You better get out of his way, Zvil!” another soldier shouted from behind them.

  “Have you looked at the boy, Zvili?” Doron asked the question in a very even tone with spaces between the words. Marina stood very close to Doron. He looked down at Ibrahim. Was he breathing at all? Still, behind Doron’s ball of panic over the boy, he worried, he worried—was he doing the right thing? Was Zvili right?

  “Hurry, hurry,” she said.

  She turned to Doron.

  “Look at my boy,” she whispered to him.

  He looked again.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Doron said, and Zvili moved aside.

  They all rushed through the door together, as the emergency medical crew of the ambulance rushed toward them. The doors to the back of the ambulance had just opened. A man in a white coat ran to the injured private, who was just ahead of Marina and Doron and holding the red rag against his cheek.

  “No,” shouted Doron at them. “Here, here.” He pointed, and the white-coated man saw the boy. Doron saw a look of concern pass over the man’s face.

  The man felt the boy’s pulse and he put his hand above Ibrahim’s mouth. He bent down and put his ear against the child’s chest.

  He stood and started shouting and everything began to jump around Doron and Marina. Now everyone was acknowledging an emergency. The white-coated man plucked the child out of his mother’s arms and rushed him into the back of the ambulance. Marina ran after them and Doron followed her. The bleeding private stood off to the side, watching, dabbing at his eye. Everyone inside the ambulance was shouting, green monitors beeped, a nurse leaned over. The child lay pale against the white stretcher, a mask over his face, a white hospital blanket thrown across him, emblazoned with big black Hebrew letters. Marina kept trying to push through the technicians to get to him. Finally they let her hold his hand.

  The siren was still going. Doron stood outside thinking, I am the enemy, I am the enemy. The ambulance’s spinning light made the rubble at his feet appear and disappear. The little bits of glass and pebble seemed to dance around him in a circle, flickering. He saw Zvili walking back to the trailer. The private’s damaged face flashed in and out of view. In the artificial l
ight, the slender-legged watchtower with its searchlight at the top looked pitifully fragile. It looked as if a child could blow it out like a candle.

  The next thing Doron knew, the man in white was walking stoop-shouldered over to the bleeding private. Doron turned and looked toward the ambulance. It was as if everything had come to a halt. A nurse sniffled loudly. There was an odd silence except for the mother sobbing against the side of the ambulance. Everyone was watching her, unmoving. They looked frightened. Doron walked toward her. He hesitated. She was shaking with sobs. He put his hand on her arm. She let it stay there for a moment. She turned and looked at him. He knew right then that he would give anything to forget that look. Then she shook him off with a violent movement of her arm, and climbed into the ambulance to be with her boy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE WINTER WIND BLEW THROUGH the cypress stands at the edge of the graveyard. The first line of mourners approached the family plot, followed by a small bier borne by two men over the stone-strewn yard. Behind George and Philip, hundreds more filed into the small cemetery. Marina had been left at home with her sisters-in-law. Women did not attend Muslim funerals, Philip had reminded George. The mourners wore sunglasses and shaded their eyes.

  “Get out of my way,” George heard someone yell. Philip wheeled around to see who was disturbing the quiet. It was the press corps. The television people were up ahead, behind a police fence. The still-rising sun cast long bony shadows over the headstones and mausoleums.

  The photographers and cameramen, shoving for position, clambered up the graveyard wall, and tumbled down. Some had hauled themselves and their equipment up into the cedar branches. Others stood on aluminum ladders they had brought along. As the wind shifted, they appeared and disappeared among the branches. Down the hill and blanketing the small street that connected the graveyard to East Jerusalem, George could see the procession coming, hats, scarves, and keffiyehs, and bareheaded young men by the hundreds, and above it all the green banners of Hamas, and then, farther back, the red, white, green, and black of the Palestinian flag. George wondered what all the young men in the crowd would do if they could get their hands on an Israeli soldier—any Israeli soldier—now, right now. Oh, Ibrahim. The cameras were pointed at the mourners like the open mouths of fish.