The Book of Trees

by Leanne Lieberman

  The streets were deserted except for a young religious guy across the street in a black hat, black jacket and white shirt. I saw him look at me and then quickly look away. I guessed he was bored on Shabbos and out for a walk too. I tried to ignore him and concentrate on my map. When I looked up, I saw the guy’s dick jutting out of his pants. Sick. I jammed my guidebook in my bag and ran several long hot blocks until I came to the American Colony Hotel.

  Dust swirled around a young Arab boy selling fruit juice in front of the hotel. Where did he live? Then I stopped in the entranceway of the hotel and gazed at the stone walls, the elegant greenery, the mosaic floors. At the far end of the hall an archway led to a tranquil pool. There was also a small bookstore. The desk clerk eyed me. I strolled right past him.

  I walked down the hallway to the pool, sat in the shade of an umbrella and kicked off my sandals. I felt cooler just looking at the water. A waiter came by and I ordered an ice tea, which you’re probably not supposed to do on Shabbos, but I could wait until sundown to pay for it. That was okay, wasn’t it?

  NINE

  One of my Bubbie Bess’s friends, who had moved to Israel to be near her kids, called me up and invited me out to tea. Mrs. Shanowitz used to have the lawn chair next to Bubbie Bess at her Florida condo.

  “I’ll take you somewhere where it won’t feel like Israel. Meet me at Ticho House.” Only a few blocks away from Zion Square, Ticho House was nestled in a rich green garden with a shady café patio.

  I wasn’t sure why I agreed. I’d never really liked Mrs. Shanowitz. She was a busybody who always said you looked either too thin or too fat. She always had a nice boy she wanted to set you up with, someone who was going to be a lawyer or had just got into Yale. I only agreed to meet her because her voice reminded me of Bubbie Bess.

  Mrs. Shanowitz wore closed-toe shoes despite the heat and the same kind of white polyester pants with a sharp crease down the front and giant sunglasses that Bubbie Bess liked to wear. A huge diamond sparkled like a chandelier on her left hand.

  Mrs. Shanowitz gave me two noisy kisses, one on each cheek, and then peppered me with questions about Sheila and Flip. I felt briefly homesick for my family, listening to her accent. She said gas the way Bess said it—gaz—as if she was speaking French.

  She ordered tea and started complaining. Israel was too hot, too dirty, too dangerous. Still, she couldn’t afford another broken hip from the ice at home. Her health insurance made Florida too expensive. She couldn’t go gallivanting to see the sights because the uneven Jerusalem stone on the roads and sidewalks might trip her. Her children were too busy with their own lives and didn’t have time to ferry her around.

  I tuned her out and drank in the tall trees at the edge of the garden. Don would like to sit under those.

  “I’ve only been to the Wall once since I came here,” Mrs. Shanowitz said.

  “Would you like to go now?”

  “Oh, I’m a little tired. It’s so hot.”

  “We could take a cab.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.” She looked pleased.

  The cab driver took us to Dung Gate, where the tour buses let off tourists close to the Kotel. I helped Mrs. Shanowitz across the plaza and to a chair by the wall. I sat a few rows back. It was mid-afternoon and very hot. Tourists thronged the wall, gawking at the stones instead of praying. I sighed. A wall, people, a symbol. And me? I was sick of thinking about it.

  Mrs. Shanowitz didn’t pray; she people-watched. After a few minutes she asked to walk around. She held tightly on to my arm and kept up a steady commentary. “Christians, hmm. I can’t imagine what they get out of all this, but I suppose they’re curious. Do you think they could have restricted times? Oh, I guess that would be unpopular. Wow, look at the size of the men’s side. So much bigger. I guess that’s religion for you, squishing the women off in a corner. Oh, I hope I haven’t insulted a nice girl like you. Oh good. That goes to show.”

  When we got back to the gate, I stuck Mrs. Shanowitz in a taxi.

  “I’m going to send Bess a card and tell her how delicious you are.” She squeezed my shoulder. “You keep safe. No riding on buses or wandering alone. Okay then.” She planted more rose-scented kisses on my cheeks, and then I closed the taxi door.

  I tried to wipe the smell of old-lady perfume off me as I climbed the stairs back up to the balcony overlooking the plaza and the Kotel. Tourists strolled across the ancient stones, others prayed at the wall, the Dome glinting in the background. I’d seen pictures of the first soldiers to arrive at the wall when it was recaptured in ’67. They were the first Jews to get there in centuries. The pictures made me feel like crying, as if hands were squeezing my chest. I couldn’t imagine the city without the Kotel. Yet how many Ammonites or Palestinians had to be killed to get it? I kept wondering, had the Israeli army killed Palestinians because they’d read in the bible that the Jews had killed the Ammonites? Did it make it easier?

  I’d tried to explore other Arab parts of the city since my walk through East Jerusalem. I’d wandered down a street full of Arab cafés and falafel stands near Damascus Gate and seen the lines of people outside the Ministry of Justice. I’d stopped at a corner store to ask for a café recommendation from a teenage boy snacking on a bag of sunflower seeds. He thought about it for a moment, called out in Arabic toward the back of the shop and was joined by three other boys. They conferred and wrote down several names for me. “We go together?” asked the oldest. I hesitated and said, ‘No, thank you,” as politely as I could. I’d wandered by the cafés but didn’t go in because there were only men in them. The only women I’d noticed were two old women sitting cross-legged, selling baskets of leafy green vegetables in front of a shoe shop on King David Street. They looked out of place in their headscarves on the busy road.

  I walked away from the Kotel through the narrow Old City streets to the Armenian section. I hadn’t let myself go near Andrew’s hostel, not even to play guitar or just say hi. Now I needed to talk to him again. Besides, I was so close to the hostel, it would be rude not to stop by. I’d just say hello and then I’d get up and go. Maybe they’d be playing guitar again.

  As I rounded the corner to the hostel, I saw Andrew sitting in the open lobby playing backgammon with the guy who’d pulled him away from me in the bar in Tel Aviv. I felt my cheeks flush.

  Andrew looked up. “Long time no see. Where ya been?”

  “Oh, just around. Busy, you know.”

  He nodded to his backgammon partner. “This is my buddy, Kyle.”

  Kyle gave me a knowing smile and held out his hand. “I’ve heard about you.”

  My cheeks burned.

  Andrew jumped up. “Mia’s not one for shaking hands.”

  “Sweaty palms?”

  “Not at all.” I took a swig of water and eyed Kyle from above my water bottle. I didn’t like the way he looked me over.

  “Do you wanna join us for a drink?” Kyle pointed to a seat.

  “I’m interrupting your game.” I turned to go.

  “Oh, we were done anyway.” Andrew moved a few pieces off the board and gave me a cocky smile.

  Kyle coughed.

  Andrew got up. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  I looked down and tried to ignore Kyle’s leering smile.

  “So, what have you been up to?” Andrew turned to look at me as we climbed the stairs.

  “I’ve been busy with school.”

  “You never came back to play music. One of the guys was asking about you. He liked your voice.”

  “Well, you know, religious girls shouldn’t really be hanging out and all. I’ve been trying to concentrate on my studies.”

  Andrew stopped by a door and grinned. “So, why are you here?”

  “Oh, I was just walking by…”

  “And?”

  “I’m still thinking about those trees. I wanted your opinion…”

  Andrew unlocked the door. “Here okay?”

  “Um, well.” I peered into the narro
w room. Next to the unmade bed was a wooden table and chair. In the corner of the room, a purple and green backpack spilled clothes beside Andrew’s guitar. I envisioned us lying in that unmade bed. Get up and go, Mia. Just leave. Or at least talk to him on the roof. Say you’re uncomfortable in his room. I felt myself pulled toward that bed like a magnet. “Yeah, sure. This is fine.” I left the door open.

  Andrew cleared the chair for me and sat down on the bed. “So?”

  I clasped my hands behind my back. “I’m still thinking about those trees, the JNF forests.”

  Andrew tapped his fingers on his bare knees. “It takes up a lot of brain space, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. He leaned back against the wall and spread his hands, palms up, on his lap, listening. I took a deep breath. “The trees, they’re freaking me out, because once I learned about them, I thought, Oh, well there must be a difference between the Israeli government, which isn’t perfect, and the Torah, the Bible, which is.”

  “You mean a gap between ideal and reality?”

  “Yeah, exactly. Like the Torah is the ideal, and then Israel is the reality, and they don’t match up. And I thought, I’m okay with that. But I’ve been reading the Torah and listening to people at school talk, and I’m not sure the Torah is so ideal either.”

  Andrew gave me an amused smile. I tried to ignore it. Who cared if I sounded like a kid? “I don’t think I agree that this land was given just to the Jews,” I said. “That sounds so exclusionary.”

  “That’s kind of what religion is about, excluding others.”

  “I thought it was about peace and love.” I could see Andrew suppressing a grin. Shit, I hated sounding so stupid. I dug my fingers into my arms. “What’s the point of being religious if it’s not about helping others? The ten commandments and all that. Thou shalt not kill.”

  “And yet the Jews do.”

  I caught my breath. He was right. “And so do the Palestinians.”

  “That’s true too.”

  We sat quietly for a moment as I tried to take in everything we’d said. I wished I was taking notes so I could absorb the different ideas. Andrew sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He looked more serious than I’d ever seen him. Then he stretched his arms over his head and I caught a glimpse of his armpit hair peeking out of the sleeve of his T-shirt. I looked down at my hands.

  I took another breath and looked back up at Andrew. “Sometimes I wish I believed in Israel a little more.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “I guess I mean, I wish I really believed a Jewish homeland was worth all the bloodshed.”

  Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Do you really want to believe that?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. My roommate does.” I rubbed my eyes and stared out the window. “I think maybe they all do, at my school. It’s freaking me out. I’m, like, the only one who doesn’t.” I looked back at Andrew. “I feel so guilty criticizing Israel. You’re the only person I can talk to about these things.” I clenched my hands behind my back. It sounded so intimate.

  Andrew raised one eyebrow, which sent little shivers across my skin. We sat for a moment, not talking. I tried not to think about how good he smelled.

  Andrew yawned. “I have to go to work soon.”

  “At the museum?”

  “Yes.” He stood and picked up his towel.

  “Oh, I’ll go now.”

  “No, stay. We can walk to the bus stop together.”

  I could feel myself glowing: he wanted to walk with me. Andrew left the room with a towel, soap and some clothes.

  I sighed and let my elbows rest on my knees, my chin propped in my hands. On the table lay a guidebook, a diary with a map on the cover, and a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Andrew’s toothbrush and toothpaste, a handful of change, his sunglasses and sunscreen and a tube of deodorant sat next to the books. On the back of the chair dangled a red and white bandanna, stiff with sweat. I picked it up, put it back on the chair and then picked it up again and brought it to my face. I allowed myself one little sniff, then another, until my face was buried in the cloth and I was inhaling deeply. It smelled both sweet and salty. A sensation of falling came over me. Lights flashed behind my closed eyelids, like when I was a kid and I pressed on my lids while looking up at the sky on a sunny day. It was as if I had found something I didn’t know I was looking for, but now that I had seen it—or smelled it—I thought maybe it should have been my quest all along.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway and Andrew appeared neatly dressed in khakis and a collar shirt. I shoved the bandanna in my pocket.

  “You ready to go?”

  “Oh, okay.” I got up. He stood waiting in the doorway. “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  I picked up my backpack. The bandanna bulged in my pocket. Andrew rummaged through some papers on the corner of the table. My hand went to sneak the bandanna back, but he was already turning to me.

  “Here.” He held out a scrap of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the name of this book Sonia recommended to me. It’s about the Palestinians, the Nakba.”

  “Oh, okay. Yeah, that would be good.” I nodded. The Nakba. I was too embarrassed to ask what it meant.

  At the bus stop, I said, “I’m going to walk up to the bookstore, the one where you used to play.”

  “You won’t find that book at the Steimatsky’s on Ben Yehuda. Sonia said you have to go to the bookstore at the American Colony Hotel.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I started walking away and then changed my mind. “Hey, you’re not playing on Ben Yehuda anymore?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Andrew rubbed his forehead. “It’s complicated. I found other things to do.”

  “Like?”

  He shook his head. “It’s too long a story to tell you now.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  I frowned. “No, you can’t do that.” I imagined the girls hovering over the phone in the lounge. Mia, who’s calling? Mia, who’s the guy with the sexy voice on the phone? It’d be all over the dorm in moments.

  “Then how can I find you?”

  A little thrill ran through me. He wanted to find me. “You can’t.”

  He smiled. “I’m just supposed to wait like… ”

  I laughed. “Like some teenage girl?”

  “Yeah, like some teenage girl.” He widened his stance, one hand on his hip.

  Andrew’s bus pulled up to the stop. I started walking away. “See you around.”

  Andrew shook his finger at me.

  I watched his bus pull away. I could tell everyone I was going to visit long-lost cousins in Tel Aviv for the weekend. I could sneak away for an afternoon and meet Andrew at the beach and…what? We’d walk in the waves and hold hands and kiss and then maybe…my mind raced. I was naked in his arms. I was sniffing his neck for more of that delicious scent. We would make slow, sensual love, and then I’d take his T-shirt back to the dorm. While all the other girls were sleeping in their single beds, thinking their pristine thoughts about their b’shert, their one true love, I’d be writhing in Andrew’s T-shirt.

  This was so not why I was supposed to be in Israel.

  Why weren’t the other girls meeting hot guys like Andrew? Was I the only one not getting off on Israeli dancing and volunteer work? I was a slut at heart, that had to be it. Now I knew why everyone warned me against wandering around the city: bombs weren’t dangerous, men were. No, not men. It was me. I was dangerous. I felt a little chill run down my spine. Hadn’t I always wanted to be dangerous? No, that was the Old Mia. The New Mia was supposed to be pious and do good deeds. I hugged my arms around myself. I couldn’t help it; I just wanted to be with Andrew.

  I fingered the paper Andrew had handed me. Sheila had given me money to buy something special for myself. The other yeshiva girls bought beautiful pottery matchboxes for their Shabbos candles, or necklaces with their name writt
en on a grain of rice, not books about the Nakba.

  I walked around the Old City, up Shivtei Yisrael Street, which bisected the ultra-religious community of Mea She’arim from East Jerusalem to the American Colony Hotel. In the little bookstore I handed the clerk the scrap of paper with the book title Andrew had recommended. The clerk handed me a paperback entitled The Nakba. On the cover was a black-and-white picture of a bulldozer uprooting an olive tree.

  I took a bus through East Jerusalem up to French Hill and then walked the rest of the way to the yeshiva. Back in my dorm room I lay down on my bed with the book. It wasn’t like any other Jewish book or article I had read. It was about the Nakba, the catastrophe of 600,000 or more Palestinians who were violently expelled from their homes in 1948, who became refugees in their own land, who lost their orange groves, their olive trees, their fresh figs.

  I read a poem by Tawfiq Zayyad.

  I shall carve the record of all my sufferings, and all my secrets,

  On an olive tree, in the courtyard, of the house…

  I shall carve the number of each deed of our usurped land,

  The location of my village and its boundaries,

  The demolished houses of its people, my uprooted trees…

  I shoved the book off my lap. I could feel the heat of it searing my legs.

  I didn’t know who came first, whose land it originally was, but I understood that women had lost their houses. I understood men had lost their trees. I understood children had lost their homeland.

  By the time Aviva came home, I had a raging headache.

  “How was your day?” She put down her bag and flopped on her bed.

  I was so wrecked I could barely answer. I mumbled something under my breath.

  Aviva turned to look at me. “You don’t look okay.”

  “I’ve been reading about the Nakba.” I held up the book.

  “The what?”

  “The Palestinian expulsion.”

  “The Palestinian what?”

  “It’s what the Palestinians call what happened to them in 1948, after the war.”

  “I thought they all just fled. What are you reading that for anyway?”