Shoot Me, I'm Already Dead

by Julia Navarro

  Aya also began to enjoy life with her son. She blamed herself for losing her milk, but also for not having poured herself into him as mothers were supposed to do with their children. Sunk in her grief at her father’s death, she had behaved like an automaton, separated from everything that surrounded her. But now she would not separate herself from Rami, and the child grew daily, and gave her beautiful smiles.

  She was also happy to have Marinna back in her life, and waited to see her every afternoon at the door of the laboratory. Marinna liked holding Rami, and she sang to him and tickled him to make him laugh.

  “Are you in love with Igor?” she plucked up the courage to ask one day.

  “As much in love as I need to be to marry him,” Marinna replied sincerely.

  “I don’t know why I thought that Mikhail would ask for your hand . . . ,” Aya said.

  “Mikhail? Yes, he’s very handsome and he used to look at me with interest, but as soon as he knew Yasmin he had no eyes for anyone else.”

  “And did you like him?” Aya insisted.

  “He’s a good person, but a little complicated. Well, the important thing now is that I am going to marry Igor.”

  “You will be happy. My mother says that Igor is very serious and responsible and that he will know how to take care of you.”

  Sometimes they would remember their fathers together. Ahmed and Jacob, one more thing that tied them to each other. They had both died because of the now-vanished Ottoman Empire, and both Aya and Marinna now felt an implacable hatred for the Turks.

  The only thing they didn’t dare speak about was Mohammed. Aya would have liked to have done so, but she didn’t know if it would hurt Marinna, so she didn’t say anything about the wedding being planned between him and Salma.

  Mohammed would be married already were it not for the war. Aya’s brother was now twenty-seven, the same age as Marinna.

  “Mohammed is going to go to ask Samuel if he can build an extension to the house,” Dina said to her daughter one day.

  “Extend it? We don’t need any more space . . .”

  “Yes, yes, we do. Your grandmother had the idea and it was right: Salma will need at least a couple of rooms to herself so as not to run into us all day long.”

  “But she will be living with us! We’re her family!” Aya protested, remembering how she had been incorporated into her mother-in-law’s house.

  “We will be her family, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t need her own space. You know, living with the mother-in-law may be a tradition, but that doesn’t mean that it’s the best one,” Dina admitted.

  Aya agreed when she thought about her own mother-in-law, but when she thought about Dina, she could imagine no better fate than to live with her mother.

  As well as looking after the farm, Mohammed worked at the quarry. But unlike his father, he did not work from dawn till dusk cutting stone: Jeremiah had made him the quarry’s accountant.

  “I need someone I can trust to negotiate the sales and keep the books. You studied in Constantinople, you know about law, you can do this job.”

  This was a stroke of luck for Mohammed. Not because he disliked hard work, he had been through the war after all, but because he knew that his father would have been pleased. Igor did not take this badly and accepted this division of labor. Each occupied his own place, they got on well, although you could not say that they were friends. But because each had suffered the loss of his father at the hands of the Turks, this gave them a link that reached beyond their personal opinions.

  One night Mohammed came to Hope Orchard to speak with Samuel. Ruth and Kassia insisted that he stay for supper, and he accepted their invitation. He didn’t yet feel completely comfortable in Marinna’s presence, far less so when he saw her sitting with Igor, but he made the effort to behave naturally, as did she.

  After the meal, taking advantage of the warm night, Samuel invited Mohammed out to walk and smoke a cigarette.

  Mohammed felt affection for Samuel, and thought of him almost as a father. Ahmed had considered him a fair man and a generous friend.

  “I’m getting married in a few weeks.”

  “I know, I wish you happiness with all my heart. Your father would have been very proud of you. Jeremiah is always singing your praises, he says that business is better than ever since you took over the accounts and are dealing with buyers.”

  “I want to rent more land. I want to make my house bigger and the farm bigger as well, I hope you don’t mind.”

  Samuel said nothing and looked inquisitively at Mohammed. But Mohammed said nothing, merely waiting for his reply.

  “Of course, but I will have to ask Ruth and Kassia as well; Hope Orchard is theirs, too.”

  “I know, and . . . Well, I want to thank you for not raising the rent all these years. We still pay the same as we did when you bought the land . . .”

  “And it’s what you will always pay, not a penny more.”

  “But if I take more land . . .”

  “The same. I’ve said so already. You have a family to support, and Salma and you will soon have children.”

  What Samuel did not say at the time was what he was going to suggest to Ruth and Kassia. Mohammed was surprised when Samuel came to the quarry a few days later. He saw him talking to Jeremiah for a while, then Jeremiah called him over.

  “You know about law, so go with Samuel, he needs your advice on some business he’s carrying out,” Jeremiah said with a smile.

  Little could he imagine that the business was in fact a gift. Hope Orchard wanted to cede to the Ziad family a plot of land, the land on which their house and farm were set up, and a few more meters as well. If he had not grown hard on the battlefield, Mohammed would have burst into tears. However, he refused to accept the gift.

  “I would prefer for you to sell me the land. If the price is not too high, and if I can pay you little by little . . . My father always said that you only appreciate what is difficult to obtain.”

  Samuel understood that for Mohammed it was a question of pride, and honor, to be able to buy his own house, and so he set a price his tenant would be able to pay.

  They hugged and signed the contract. Then they went back to Hope Orchard, where Kassia and Ruth were waiting for them.

  “We wanted it to be our wedding present,” Kassia said with a smile.

  “This land is as much yours as it is ours,” Ruth said. “We have all worked it with equal care.”

  Igor and Marinna also shared in the good news. Marinna even made a joke:

  “Don’t forget that we are socialists. That’s what a good socialist does, expropriate property to share it with the community, although I see that you’re not letting us do that.”

  This was the first day since his father had been hanged that Mohammed felt anything approaching happiness.

  Dina and Zaida cried with happiness, and Aya came running to the house to give Marinna a hug.

  The friendship between the Ziad family and the inhabitants of the commune seemed to have been reestablished, and as strongly as it had been when Ahmed was alive, now that a truce had been reached between Marinna and Mohammed as a result of their respective weddings.

  Mohammed got married on a cold February day in 1919. It was a modest wedding. In Mohammed’s heart, as in Salma’s, the deaths of their fathers still hung heavily. They had been killed on the same day, and for the same cause.

  Salma had chestnut hair with red highlights. Her eyes were also chestnut-colored, she was of medium height and well-proportioned. But what conquered everyone she met was her extreme sweetness. She was a peaceful and kind woman, always ready to help others.

  “It is impossible not to love her,” Aya said to her mother.

  Aya had worried that the wedding would cause Marinna to suffer. But Marinna was friendly toward Salma, she praised her wedding dress and to
ok part in all the events for the women, insisting that everyone was to be invited to Marinna’s own wedding, which was to take place not long afterwards.

  Dina could not have been happier with her daughter-in-law. She was docile and obedient, and even though Mohammed had enlarged the house so she could have some peace and quiet, Salma spent the days with her mother-in-law and Zaida, and helped Aya as much as she could with little Rami, who could now stand up and was trying to take his first steps.

  Only Zaida’s illness darkened those tranquil days. The old woman found it difficult to walk, she lost her breath with the slightest effort, and seemed exhausted.

  One morning Zaida did not have the strength to get out of bed. She seemed to have no pulse. Dina sent Aya to the commune to fetch Samuel, in case he could bring one of his medicines.

  Samuel was not there, but Netanel, that discreet old man who had included himself into their communal life and who was, according to Samuel, a better pharmacist than he was, came to Zaida’s bedside. He was not a doctor, but he knew enough about illnesses to see that Zaida’s heart was tired of beating.

  “I will send Daniel to find his uncle. Yossi should be with patients at this hour, but I’m sure that he will come at once.”

  Daniel ran off like a colt and came back an hour later with his Uncle Yossi.

  Zaida opened her eyes and smiled.

  “I thought you were your father, good old Abraham, when I saw you. You look so much like him . . . ,” she managed to say in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

  Yossi examined Zaida and took her pulse. Then he whispered something in Netanel’s ear, and the old man went off to the laboratory to fetch the medicine he had been asked to get.

  “You need to rest,” Yossi said to Zaida.

  “But that won’t make me get any better. Your father, good old Abraham, he never tried to trick his patients. Abraham never promised to cure anyone when he knew that nothing he could do would save a person’s life.”

  “I won’t lie to you either. Your heart is worn out, you know that as well as I do.”

  “Yes, I have lived too long, and although I have suffered, living has been worthwhile. Now the time has come for me to be with the father of my children, to be with my parents, to be with everyone I have ever loved. I have no strength to continue.”

  Netanel came back with a bottle which he gave to Yossi, and Yossi took out a couple of pills, which he gave to Dina and asked her to let Zaida have them with a little water.

  “She will breathe better if her head is a little higher,” he said, and asked for a pillow.

  Zaida spent two days and two nights saying goodbye to her family as her heart gradually slowed its beating. She spent the third night in an agitated state, and died at dawn.

  Dina had not left her mother’s side, and neither had Aya, who had given Rami over to the care of Salma, her sister-in-law. Kassia and Ruth had been there as well, trying not to bother anyone, but helping as much as they could.

  Everyone who had known Zaida mourned her. Dina and her brother Hassan knew the pain of being orphaned. Hassan cried for his mother’s death, but his tears were also for Salah, the son he had lost in the war, and for Layla, his mad wife. “What is left for me?” he said, unable to find consolation even in the embrace of Jaled, his one surviving son.

  Kassia could not find the words to console Dina, but she tried to make her feel less alone, and visited her every afternoon. Dina saw her own wrinkles reflected in Kassia’s. That white skin she had so admired when she first met Kassia had turned dark, weather-beaten and worn like her own. They had grown old together, and the distance created between them by the problems with Mohammed and Marinna had shrunk away.

  Dina had always admired Kassia’s willingness to work the land they shared. She felt closer to her than to her own sister-in-law, Layla. She had shared secrets with Kassia, they had laughed and cried together. She was her friend, her closest, most beloved friend. And now Kassia was with her, respecting her silence and her tears.

  Dina tried to cry when Mohammed and Aya would not see her. She didn’t want to add more pain to that already felt by her children, devastated as they were by the death of their grandmother. It was only little Rami who could get her to smile. The little boy was more lively and happy every day, and he did not give them a moment’s peace.

  It didn’t take long for Salma to be able to announce that she was expecting a child. She did so on the same day as Igor and Marinna’s wedding.

  A few hours before the ceremony, they had gone to the commune to see the bride and give her their presents. Dina had even cooked her famous sweets that Marinna liked so much. They didn’t stay longer than was absolutely necessary, although Kassia insisted that they should.

  “I can’t, Kassia, I can’t, and it’s not because of what our neighbors would think, but because all I want to do is cry and I will not be good company. I have told Aya and Mohammed to stay, but they won’t either, out of respect for Zaida. Not enough time has gone by for us to be able to share your joy.”

  They didn’t blame their guests. Kassia and Ruth had grieved over the deaths of their husbands, and they would not have gone to any ceremony, not for any cause or for anybody. But they were sad at Dina’s absence.

  “You are a part of this strange family we have made here,” Kassia had said.

  Marinna was beautiful, even though she seemed a little sad, and Dina did not fail to notice that her eyes seemed to be wet when she was congratulated by Mohammed and Salma.

  If life had only stopped at that moment, if they had not been surprised by even more suffering . . .

  The year 1920 would cause a chasm to open in their lives, in the lives of all who shared Hope Orchard.

  11

  The Tragedy

  “They sat in silence for a few seconds, each caught up in thought. It had begun to become a habit for them to need this brief moment to return to reality.

  “I think that’s enough for today.” Ezekiel’s voice showed how tired he was.

  “You’re right, and I . . . Well, I think I’m abusing your kindness.”

  “Don’t worry, I think that this conversation is good for both of us.”

  “Good for us? I wouldn’t have put it that way . . .”

  “Think about it, and you’ll see that I’m right. How about taking a stroll with me tomorrow through the Old City?”

  “If you want . . .”

  “When are you leaving? I suppose your organization won’t let you stay for much longer.”

  “They are careful with time and money, but also they don’t stop us from doing the work that needs to be done.”

  “So you still have some time.”

  Marian shrugged. Ever since arriving in Jerusalem, she had felt that time was slipping through her fingers, but that was not a problem, at least not at the moment.

  “Why do you want us to walk through Jerusalem?”

  “Because you will better understand what I have to tell you if we’re at the place where it happened. Is ten o’clock alright for you, by the door to the Holy Sepulchre?”

  She agreed, a little confused, but ready to allow herself to be carried along by a situation that already seemed out of her control.

  “I’ll be there.”

  When she got back to the hotel, she called Brussels. Michel, the executive director of the Refugees organization, did not seem to be in a good mood.

  “Hallelujah, she’s alive!” he said, in an acidic tone of voice.

  “Of course I’m alive, why are you being so silly?” she replied, mentally putting herself on her guard.

  “We haven’t heard from you for three days, do you think you’re on holiday?”

  “Come off it, Michel, don’t be like that, I’m busy. Things are not easy here. I can’t make an exhaustive report if I don’t speak to people.”

 
“You’ve been in Israel for a week already; do you really need more time? You can travel across the whole country in a day.”

  “It’s not that easy . . . Well, the first part was. The Palestinians were willing to collaborate, but the Israelis don’t like us that much, they were mistrustful.”

  “Right. So?”

  “So, as well as the official interviews with ministers and members of parliament, I think I need to speak to Israelis at street level, which is what I’ve been doing.”

  “If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were having a little romantic adventure, but who knows? . . . It’s the sort of thing that happens when you go on a ‘field trip.’”

  “Speak for yourself,” she replied in annoyance.

  “Well, when are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know, in three or four days . . .”

  “Will that be enough?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Maybe. I’ll call you.”

  “Two days, no more. Or you get used to working in a different way and I don’t send you anywhere. You were in Rwanda for two months, in Sudan for one, in . . .”

  “Please!”

  “Marian, it’s a job, nothing more. Do the best that you can without getting involved, you’re not there to sort out the conflict all by yourself. I want your report on my table on Monday morning, first thing.” Marian had no time to reply because Michel hung up.

  There were several groups of tourists trying to enter the Holy Sepulchre. The guide for an American group asked them to stay together. A priest was taking a very large group of Spaniards around. Several women who seemed very shy, whom Marian imagined were nuns, seemed to be in ecstasy as they waited their turn to enter the church.

  She waited impatiently for Ezekiel to arrive. She had gotten up early and had spent a good while walking through the Old City. She had managed to climb up early onto the Dome of the Rock. Then she had watched the Jews coming and going near the Wailing Wall.