by Howard Fast
“We have children,” Barbara said. “All the children in the family. Children don’t belong to anyone.”
That evening they dined with the mayor of Tel Aviv, a tall, handsome man; his wife; and a professor, Zvi Harana by name, chairman of history at the local university; and his wife. The professor was a stout, bearded man, his wife a plump pudding of a woman who reminded Barbara of Eloise. The mayor’s wife was a talkative, pretty woman who wore an elegant evening gown as companion to her husband’s dinner jacket. This surprised Barbara, in a land where the necktie was almost unknown—the first dinner jacket and black tie she had encountered. They were all warm and congratulatory toward Philip and Barbara, and they all spoke English with facility; and then the talk turned to the Carters’ stay in Israel and where they should go and what they should see. There were also numerous questions about Unitarianism, and the mayor’s wife wondered how it was different from Judaism.
“Well,” Philip explained, “we have no given rituals or doctrines. We don’t ask that anyone should accept any concept of God as against another. We read from the Old Testament and the New Testament, and we honor Jesus as a great prophet. We believe in the ineffable nature of God—”
“Please,” Mrs. Harana interrupted, “I don’t know what that word means—ineffable.”
“Unknowable, Hannah,” her husband said. “But that is very Jewish, Dr. Carter. In fact, our Bible specifies the unknowability of God.”
“In fact,” the mayor put in, “in one of the most provoking verses in the Bible, I believe it’s Exodus 3:14, Moses asks God for his name, and God replies, ‘I AM THAT I AM.’ And again, in the next verse, God is the great I AM.”
Philip nodded. “In seminary, we discussed that for hours. I was a Catholic priest before I left that Church and became a Unitarian.”
“A Jesuit?” the Professor asked.
“Yes, a Jesuit. I fell in love with a nun, my first wife. We left the Church together. She died five years ago.”
“May I say that I believe such an act took singular spiritual courage?”
“Perhaps. I don’t really know what ‘courage’ means. Love, yes—but courage?”
“I won’t argue the point,” the professor said.
“Do you have any Unitarian congregation here?” Philip asked.
The mayor shrugged. “I really don’t know. We have total freedom of religion and at least a few of every sect I have ever heard of—but Unitarians…”
Barbara listened with a degree of awe. Their conversation was of matters she had never given any thought to, and later that evening, back at the hotel, she mentioned to Philip that it was odd to hear a group of highly educated people discuss God as a matter of reality.
“They are Israelis,” Philip said. “After all, the Old Testament was written in their language.”
“But I always thought that most Israelis were irreligious.”
“Perhaps, but not in the sense of your use of the term. Jews, I have learned, are very complicated. Even when they become Unitarians, and we have a good many of them, they remain Jewish. As for the Israelis—well, I haven’t met enough of them to dare to generalize, but with them, the Bible is not simply a religious tome. It’s their history.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Barbara said. “I haven’t opened a Bible since Sunday school. Shall I read it, Philip?”
“You might try it. But remember I made a promise to you, and to myself, for that matter, never to try to convert you to anything.”
“You’re against conversion, aren’t you?”
“Somewhat. I think people should find their own way.”
The next day was Saturday, the day they had decided to check out of the Samuel for the trip to Jerusalem, but when Barbara presented herself at the desk to pay their bill, the woman she spoke to said that there was no bill. “The manager’s instructions,” she said; and when Barbara went into the manager’s office, indignant and determined to pay her bill, the manager was equally indignant. “How could I face any of my employees if word got around that we had charged you?”
“But that is one thing and what my husband did is another.”
“You are going to stay at the Mishkenot in Jerusalem. Do you think Teddy Kollek will charge you? You’re our guest. Please say no more about it.”
Barbara nodded. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you.”
Barbara had an understandable aversion to buses, and she wondered whether cabs would be available on the Sabbath. They were, a line of them outside the hotel, and she and Philip seated themselves in a large four-door Mercedes driven by a man who introduced himself as Ezra Cohen. His English was heavily accented but adequate. “Jerusalem?” he said. “Where in Jerusalem?”
“The Mishkenot Sha’ananim,” Philip said.
“Seventy kilometers.” Then he turned from his driver’s seat and studied them carefully. “You’re the man,” he said to Philip. “You went into the bus for the kids, right?”
Philip sighed, and Barbara replied, “Yes, Mr. Cohen. I’m his wife.”
“For anyone else, it’s fifty dollars. You, I don’t charge.”
“Of course you will charge us.”
“Three reasons I shouldn’t, Mrs. Carter. First reason, I wasn’t going to work today. It’s Shabbat. My wife says to me, ‘All of a sudden you’re religious? You don’t go to shul, even on Rosh Hashanah. You smoke on Shabbat. So don’t tell me you will lie in bed all day.’” And turning to Philip, “You don’t mind I take a cigarette?”
“No, I don’t mind.”
“Second reason,” Mr. Cohen continued, starting to drive, “I got my sister in Jerusalem, I haven’t seen her in months. Third reason, I tell my wife I met Mr. and Mrs. Carter, she’s so impressed she don’t make me crazy for maybe two days.”
Barbara relaxed and whispered to Philip, “You can’t win an argument with them. They love to argue.”
“And they’re like family. Everyone knows everyone else, or so it seems. I think it’s wonderful. I never really had family, it was only Agatha and myself. That’s why Highgate is so pleasant for me.”
“I think the church was your family, Philip.”
“Yes and no.”
A few miles from Tel Aviv, they saw on their left a wide green meadow, planted in wheat, that stretched away to the north. Years and years ago, more years than she cared to remember, Barbara had seen that meadow; and recalling it, she said to Philip, “That’s where King Saul fought the Philistines—right there in that meadow.”
“And beat them,” the driver put in. “Gave them a licking they never forgot.”
“I’m sure,” Philip agreed, staring, fascinated. “You can’t imagine what this means to me.”
“I think I can,” Barbara said.
The road wound on, curving through terraced hillsides covered with forests of evergreen. “I read,” Philip remarked, “that when the Jews first declared independence, all these hills were bare. They planted all these trees since then.”
“Millions,” the driver agreed, “millions of trees. The terraces were built in the time of the Maccabees, but the tree planting—each day more.” The air was clean and saturated with the sweet smell of the pines, and as they drove on toward Jerusalem, the climate changed, becoming brisk and cool.
Expecting the walled Jerusalem of the illustrations he had seen, Philip was amazed at the city that appeared, new high-rise apartment houses, tree-lined streets, smart shops, and rows of well-built homes. They finally approached the King David Hotel, swung around, and were at the Mishkenot, a high wall and a pair of large glass doors facing the street. Barbara and Philip said good-bye to Ezra, their driver, who had given them the titles and subtitles of every village they had passed; they thanked him and persuaded him to accept a twenty-dollar bill.
“Enjoy,” he told them. “It’s a beautiful city.”
A young woman rose from behind her desk in the lobby, which was a broad, comfortable room, and told them that her name was Sarah,
that she was the day attendant, and that they should call on her for anything they required. She had been expecting them, and since they must be tired, she would take them to their apartment immediately. Sarah spoke a British-accented English as if she had been born to it—she was native to Israel, they learned—an accent they were to hear frequently.
A young man carried their luggage. The apartment, a duplex with a large living room and a kitchen on the first floor and two bedrooms above, had walls of stone, and the floor, too, was stone. As Barbara closed the door behind Sarah, she heard Philip exclaim, “Barbara! Barbara, come look!”
He was standing at a glass door that opened onto a balcony; and joining him Barbara saw, below and across a valley, the Old City of Jerusalem—crenellated walls, towers and pinnacles of churches, and the glistening Dome of the Rock, all of it there as if it had been painted in a large panorama, the walls golden in the light of the setting sun.
“I hadn’t dreamed,” Philip whispered.
“You were so disappointed in the New City.”
“Yes, I thought the old place was gone—but there it is across the valley, so close we could almost reach out and touch it. I can see Jesus riding up to that gate. It’s all there, Barbara.”
“Yes, and you’re a Jesuit again,” she said, putting an arm around him. “I’m glad we came here, Philip. Don’t mind if I tease you. I know how important this is to you.”
“That valley between us and the city—what do you suppose it’s called?”
“I have a map here. Somewhere.” She went to look for the map, and Philip opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony.
The air was cold and sharp, like San Francisco on a winter evening—a place on the other side of the world—and this was the navel of the world; and all the old memories and practices returned, and tears welled into his eyes at the thought that he was here, truly here—something that Barbara would never completely understand. She was of the earth, wholly, completely, and there was a core inside of her that needed no support other than her mind and her body. But wasn’t that the basis of his love for her, this strength that she gave him?
“I think it’s called Meve Shaoaam, or perhaps that’s some other place. Philip, it’s cold out here. I never thought it could be so cold in Jerusalem.”
The valley was deep black now, but the sun still reflected the minarets and church towers of Old Jerusalem.
“Come inside,” she said.
“It’s not real. I can’t believe I’m standing here.”
“You’ll believe it if you get a chill. You’re still doped up with the painkillers and the other stuff they gave you. Come and we’ll have dinner, old man. I’m starved.”
When they asked Sarah where they might find some dinner, she suggested a French restaurant; and when Barbara raised a brow, Sarah attested to the fact that it was a wonderful restaurant, opened some years ago by French Jews. “You see, Mrs. Carter, we have everything here. If your taste turns to Italian food, we have an Italian Jewish restaurant down near the old railroad station, but you’d never find it by yourselves. Tomorrow Mr. Kollek is sending a guide and a touring car for you, and it will be at your disposal.”
Barbara shook her head in disbelief, and Philip asked, “Can’t we just walk from here to the Old City?”
“Yes, if you’re good walkers. But I think you would do better to take the car to the city gate and walk from there. The Old City is a maze, and if you’ve never been there, you’ll want the guide. He knows the Old City, and he’s a charming young man, an Egyptian Jew fluent in Arabic.”
“That would be wonderful,” Barbara decided. “At what time?”
“He’ll be here at nine a.m.—or whenever you’re ready. His name is Abdul Carim.”
“Aren’t we an awful burden to you?” Philip asked.
“No, not at all. This house is maintained by the government for visitors of distinction.”
“‘Visitors of distinction,’” Barbara repeated as they walked down the street to the French restaurant. “Here I am, fortunate enough to be married to a man who is a valid hero, crazy enough to jump into a burning bus and become a national symbol. I know that pride is a sin to your way of thinking, but you married a sinful woman, and I’m very proud of you. So from now on, please, let it happen, pride or not.”
“Heaven knows what will happen. Don’t forget, my hair is gone, and my skull is smeared over with white paste—”
“Pride again. Do I ever protest the white paste when I go to bed with you?”
“I try to blot it off each night.”
“And then you make love to me like a seventeen-year-old—that’s prideful and sinful… I know. I said I would stop teasing you. Please forgive me.”
The food in the French restaurant was very good, and they were seated by a window where they could see the lights of the Old City. The champagne that was brought to them as a gift of the house was valid French brut.
“How do they know?” Barbara wondered.
“I’m sure Sarah called them. There’s something very familial about this country,” Philip said. “Everyone appears to be related. My dear Barbara, let me explain something to you. I went to a Catholic primary school, a Catholic high school, and then a Jesuit seminary. In all this education we were given to feel that the world of Jesus had disappeared with his crucifixion. Well, not really in that sense, but Jerusalem was a religious symbol, not an actual place where one could go. Remember that then, in the thirties, there was no country called Israel, just a handful of Jews trying to scrape a living out of the desert. What happened was a miracle, but I can’t adjust to the fact that tomorrow I will walk in the steps of Jesus, in the streets where he walked. It doesn’t matter that I am a Unitarian minister and have been a Unitarian minister for years. So you, with all your rationalism and distaste for the symbols of religion—you must somehow put up with me.”
Barbara took his hand. “My dear, sweet Philip,” she said. “I never put up with you. It’s the reverse—you put up with me, with my teasing, my nonsense, and my irascibility. I’ll be seventy in two weeks. How many widows of seventy could find a man like you?”
“Now you’re really embarrassing me.”
“I know. But I have to embarrass you to reach you. And we’ve hardly touched the champagne. What shall we drink to?”
“Shalom?”
“Why not?”
THEIR GUIDE, WHOM THEY MET at nine o’clock, was a dark, handsome young man who explained that his name was not really Abdul but Eliazer, but he had been given the nickname of Abdul because his Arabic was so good; he said it should be, since he had lived in Cairo until the age of twelve. His English was also excellent. Sarah had told him of their interest in the Old City, “And since you are both Christians, I think we should enter the walls by Saint Stephen’s Gate. Also, better parking outside for the car.” He went on to tell them that while there were eight gates in the walls, the Saint Stephen’s Gate was preferred by most Christians. “It leads directly into the Via Dolorosa, and there, if you wish, we can follow the stations of the cross. But only if you desire. We call it the Lions’ Gate because our troops entered there when we captured Jerusalem.” Then he added, “If I talk too much, just tell me to shut up.”
“We won’t tell you to shut up,” Philip said. “We’re grateful for all you can tell us.”
“Afterward, we can explore the city. It’s a marvelous place, like a museum two thousand years old. Have you had breakfast?”
“We had coffee and buns. That’s plenty,” Barbara said.
They parked outside Saint Stephen’s Gate and followed their guide through the wall. Abdul explained that the Church of Saint Anne had been built by the Crusaders, and that Barbara and Philip could come back and examine it on another day, but that now they would follow the path of the cross.
“But that’s up to you,” he added. “It is also said that the mother and father of Mary are buried under the church, but I think they invented that for the tourists.”
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br /> “Leave it for the time being,” Philip agreed. “Go ahead with the stations of the cross.”
They walked on and stopped at the yard of an old Arab school. “It was here,” Abdul said, “that Pontius Pilate met Jesus. He questioned him and then told the crowd, ‘Ecce homo’ … That’s called the Chapel of the Flagellation. The clothes of Jesus were torn off, and he was whipped and crowned with a wreath of thorns. The Romans must have known of this in advance, because they had the wreath and the purple robe all ready. The scholars disagree about that, but scholars always disagree. Then he was given a cross to drag to his own crucifixion. So we have here the first and second stations of the cross. Only, it was not exactly a cross, as we know it today, but a plank of wood on a square pole, shaped like a T. Again, I’m quoting the scholars.”
Barbara was watching Philip, who stood at the spot as if mesmerized. Abdul did not urge them on, and after a minute or so, Barbara took Philip’s arm and gently moved him forward. Tourists were passing by, some with guides, others simply strolling down the Via Dolorosa. At a small chapel Abdul said, “Here is the third station. He falls here.” Philip nodded. “And here, at the fourth station—,” Abdul said, and Philip murmured, “He falls again. In three of the gospels, Simon of Cyrene takes the cross and carries it the rest of the way. According to John, Jesus carries it the rest of the way. But how could he, a piece of wood large enough to hang a man by his hands? And here his face is wiped by Veronica. This is the sixth station, isn’t it?”
Abdul merely nodded. To Barbara, this was all strange and somewhat troublesome. If she had ever been told in Sunday school what the stations of the cross were, she had long ago forgotten. Sensing her feelings, Philip kissed her and whispered, “Don’t be alarmed, my dear. Tomorrow I’ll be a Unitarian again. Right now this is an emotional experience I can’t shake off.”