by Ragen, Naomi
Besides, they had a mortgage. And no one was going to buy their house, not now. That was the reality. Where, exactly, were they supposed to live? Almost every place in Israel had suffered some kind of terrorist attack. And then there was the element of simple shame: how could they cut and run when neighbors and friends who had suffered tragedies—lost husbands, wives, children—bravely stayed put?
If they could only hold on, they told each other, things had to get better. This craziness couldn’t last much longer. The politicians would have to gather the arms, arrest the terrorists, get rid of the inciters . . . They’d have no choice. Right wing or left wing, that’s simply what governments and armies did: protected the lives of their citizens, no?
She told herself these things bravely each day, several times a day. But each time Jon took the car out, each time he or her daughter entered that open road, her heart ached in fear, and her body grew taut and weary waiting for their return.
She remembered the words of a Hamas terrorist at the beginning of the Intifada explaining why Hamas would win and the Jews would lose. It was because the Jews “loved life more than any other people,” he’d said with utter contempt.
Nothing could be truer. Jews loved life. Their own and other peoples’. And Jewish doctors loved it best of all. Jon’s war against cancer was relentless, and he never gave up.
He still looked like the twenty-three-year-old army medic that had come knocking on her door one Saturday night, a blind date arranged by her roommate Rachel. “My brother knows this great guy,” Rachel had told her. “He’s American like you. And smart and funny and kind . . . and very religious. And he’s studying to be a doctor!”
“So why don’t you go out with him yourself?” she’d shot back, wary.
“He’s a new immigrant, from Baltimore, who’s in the same unit with my brother. You are so lucky you grew up in America! And I’m such an idiot for not studying harder for my matriculation exam in English . . .”
“I bet he’s conceited. Medical students always think they are the catch of the century and any girl lucky enough to go out with them ought to kiss their feet. They walk around like God’s gift to women. And most of them are short and pushy. Little Napoleons.”
At five feet two and with a young girl’s wispy frame, Elise was constantly on guard against being pushed around and treated like a child. In self-defense, she’d honed a sharp tongue that had been known to pierce many an inflated ego. Men seldom appreciated this. Even the chauvinistic group leaders of her high school youth group, B’nai Akiva, strapping young fellows charged with turning them into land tillers and pioneers, had retreated one by one, intimidated. And thus, despite her long honey-colored hair and striking blue eyes, Elise had spent many a Saturday night decorating the walls of the local Zionist clubhouse with blue and white ribbons, instead of out on dates.
Rachel hadn’t given up. “You don’t fool me, Elise. All that hostility is just masking shyness. You are going to go out with this guy. You know the saying: if you make two matches, your place in heaven is reserved for you. I’ve already fixed up my cousin. So, you are my ticket to the Afterlife. Are you going to cooperate or not?”
How could you deny someone her ticket to the Afterlife?
She’d picked out a pretty dress the color of lilacs. At the last minute, she’d pulled off the velvet tie-back, letting her hair fall loose and soft around her face. When Rachel ushered him in, Elise thought it must be some kind of mistake. This bashful, tall boy with the kind brown eyes, the dark unruly hair—studying medicine? He hardly seemed out of high school.
He’d suggested they go to the theatre. She’d suggested a stroll along the Promenade. He’d agreed immediately. They’d proceeded to battle the sharp, cold Jerusalem winds that whip up such a storm at night along that long stone walkway which is Jerusalem’s boardwalk, except that instead of the sea, there is a heartstopping view of the city. She’d waited for him to complain, to point out, rightly, that the sheltered walls of the Jerusalem Theatre would have been a much wiser choice. He never did. Their cheeks stinging, their hands frigid, they talked and walked deep into the night. And as they spoke, the wind magically disappeared, and their hands grew warm.
They had so much in common. Both had come from America to Israel as young adults, leaving their families behind. Both had lost their parents early in life, and felt independent, and free to choose. As post-Holocaust Jews, the idea haunted them that at the crucial moment, so many of their extended European families had had no place to run to, no country willing to take them in. And although both had been grateful to have been born within the sheltering arms of the greatest democracy on earth, neither felt it belonged to them the way these rocky little hillsides did: a place where “when you had to go there, it had to take you in.”
Of course, their families had been against it. Their friends—brought up in the same Zionist youth groups and singing the same pioneer songs in Hebrew around campfires, educated in the same yeshiva high schools where the Hebrew Bible and the books of Prophets sat side by side with texts on college-placement calculus and Shakespeare’s plays—thought they were nuts. And their parents had blamed the Hebrew day schools, which had taught them English and Hebrew simultaneously, and made them sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “Hatikvah” one after another at assemblies.
Their parents had paid the enormous yearly tuition for these private schools to ensure that their kids turned out faithful, traditional Jews who loved Israel, not radicals and dreamers bent on abandoning the safety of their American birthplace with its economic promise, to actually live in that little Middle Eastern plot of land surrounded by hostile Ishmaelites. They were horrified at the thought of their children in khaki IDF uniforms, learning how to shoot an Uzi. What they had wanted was for them to finish college, get married and live in a nice rent-controlled apartment in Flat-bush while they saved money for a down payment on a two-family house in a nice Jewish neighborhood in Queens, not too far from their parents and survivor grandparents—who had suffered so much.
Why couldn’t they be like everybody else: attend a local Young Israel, buy strictly kosher food, and give generously to the UJA? Neither of them could explain the reason they had taken such drastic and life-changing steps, journeyed so far into the unknown. It wasn’t something you could really explain to someone whose heart didn’t skip a beat at the Tomb of Abraham, who didn’t choke and tear at the words of “Hatikvah” (Still in my heart, deep inside, afewish soul is yearning. We have not lost our hope, our hope is two thousand years old . . . ).
Alone, they had made aliyah (meaning “journey upward,” a term used by all Jews to designate immigration to Israel) immediately after college. It had been hard and lonely, but also exhilarating. Meeting each other and falling in love had filled in the empty spaces left by the ravages of the sudden uprooting from their birthplace, the loss of their families. Their wedding day had been the ultimate “ingathering of the exiles,” Jon had joked, bringing in family members from around the world. And neither had ever been lonely again.
In the way of all new immigrants making a new beginning, they had wanted a family right away. But it had taken them four years and untold fertility treatments to conceive their first child, liana, now five. There had been two difficult pregnancies that had ended badly. This pregnancy too had not gone easily. In her sixth month, Elise had begun showing signs that her cervix was beginning to thin, the marker of oncoming labor. She had been confined to bed rest ever since.
“You’ve got to stay in bed, Elise. And then the heir will be born with a lusty cry, and grab the breast, and shake out the milk,” he said in his finest Herr Professor manner, stroking his nonexistent beard. Then he suddenly got up and looked out the window at the gentle, rolling hills and the houses beyond.
“Nouara,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“Nouara,” he admitted, smiling at her mind reading.
He looked toward the mosque and minaret over the hill where Nouara’s husband, Sha
wan, was probably just finishing his morning prayers. He too would be washing floors, dressing the kids, then heading for Hadassah Hospital in that beat-up Peugeot of his. He would be there today, as he was every day, feeding his small, pale wife sweet fleshy dates brought especially from Jericho, bottles of Seven-Up and plastic containers of his mother’s matchless humous. Five times a day, he fell to his knees and prayed toward Mecca, just as three times a day his wife’s doctor prayed toward Jerusalem.
Nouara ali Abad had had leukemia off and on since she was a teenager. For the last year, she had been in Dr. Jonathan Margulies’s care. As an intern and then a resident, Jon had known Nouara long before she became his patient. He had seen her beat the illness, grow back her long dark hair, marry and bear three healthy children. And now she was back, worse than ever. She had not yet turned twenty-two. Now she was his patient.
Elise heaved herself heavily over the bed and walked up behind him, reaching up and touching his cheek. “You’ll think of something, my love. You always do. May God help her . . .”
“Or Allah,” he said, tucking her arms around his waist.
“Or Allah,” she acknowledged.
He turned around slowly. “And may God help you if you overexert yourself. Elise, please.” His dark brown eyes pleaded with the helplessness of husbands facing pregnant wives.
“I give you my solemn word of honor to make you proud of me, my love,” she said, stretching up as he bent down to catch her kiss in the practiced way of tall men with tiny wives. “I’m going straight from bed to bathroom and back again. Remember: liana’s ballet recital is at four at Beit Ha Am. So you have to come get her from day care no later than three-thirty . . . and please don’t forget Bubbee Leah’s cookbook,” she murmured into his cheek, enjoying the warmth of his arms, wishing he would never leave.
“I can’t promise I’ll get to the bookstore today . . .”
“Then tomorrow . . .” she wheedled.
“She’ll never be as good a cook as her granddaughter.” He kissed her again.
“If I’m ever allowed back in the kitchen . . . I’ve forgotten what it looks like . . .”
“Tomorrow. I promise. Now, back into bed,” he demanded.
“In a minute.”
He waited patiently for her to pad in and out of the bathroom, then helped her navigate her way back under the covers. “You know how much I love you, right?”
“From here to the moon.” She smiled.
“And back again.” He nodded.
Then he went into the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves and took out the mop and pail. As he plunged his hands into the hot, soapy water, he thought how fortunate it was he’d decided against becoming a surgeon.
Chapter Two
Maaleh Sara,
Judea Monday, May 6, 2002
7:00 A.M.
RIGHT AFTER SHE heard the final fade-out of Jon’s car wheels from the driveway, Elise heard the door open and her neighbor Ruth’s cheerful “Ahalan! What’s up pussycat?” followed by liana’s squeal of joy. The child adored Ruth, who brought her home, baked cookies and never tired of chasing after her, Elise thought with a prick of jealousy.
“Hi, Lanooshr Ruth called to the child. “What do you have on? Your dancing shoes? Does Mommy know?” liana twirled into the bedroom. Her long, dark hair was a mass of tangled curls, her big brown eyes sparkled. She was wearing her leotard, backward, and her pink ballet tights sagged at the knees because they hadn’t been pulled up properly. She pirouetted around the room.
“liana! What did you do?” Jon always dressed and fed her before leaving for work, so the volunteer wouldn’t have to. How she’d managed to take off all her clothes and put on her ballet gear . . .
“But Ima, I’m practicing!”
“I know you are. But there’s no time, liana. Ruth has to go home and take care of her own children, Sammy and Daphna . . . Now she’ll have to dress you all over again . . .”
“It’s all right, Elise. I’ll manage. Come my little dancer, let’s dance over to your closet and get some clothes, okay?”
“Ima, do I have to?” She seemed genuinely forlorn, Elise worried. It wasn’t like her.
”Yes, you do, liana,” Elise said more sternly than she would have if her own feelings about turning her child over to another woman’s care weren’t so mixed. Ruth was just one of an army of neighborhood volunteers who, unasked, had worked out an elaborate schedule to make sure that every single day, someone would be there to help Elise.
In a place like Maaleh Sara, such kindnesses were taken for granted. Through the years, Elise had done similar things for her neighbors.
A small yishuv was more than a housing development. In many ways, it was like one house divided into many rooms, and all the people one large, extended family. If you saw someone’s child in need of a Band-Aid, or a sandwich, or just a hug, you provided it, no questions asked. People did the same for yours. The Biblical injunction of “love your neighbor as yourself” wasn’t a saying; it was a lifestyle.
Like a little group of space pioneers who had landed on the moon, each family understood its well-being was dependent upon their neighbors’. In extraordinary circumstances like births and deaths, neighbors watched your children, cooked your meals, washed your clothes and filled your freezer. And on ordinary days, when you needed a cup of sugar, or a doctor’s referral, or the name of a plumber, they made sure you got it. You were never alone to fend for yourself.
“Are you coming to see me dance, Ima?”
“Not this time, rnotek”
“Because you can’t wake up the baby?”
Good explanation, Elise thought. “Right! The baby needs to keep real quiet until it’s ready to come out.”
“Maybe it won’t want to come out?” she said hopefully.
Elise studied her, surprised. “Don’t you want it to? So you can play together?”
“Noooh. I have no time to play. I have to practice . . .” She twirled around the room, then stopped. “Do you need a new baby to play with, Ima?”
“Come here, baby.” Elise motioned to her. Cradling liana’s warm little face between her hands, Elise kissed every feature separately: the fluttering eyelids, thick little nose, attentive little ears and the rosebud mouth that didn’t stop talking for a second. “You’ll always be our special girl. Our first girl,” she whispered to her as she nuzzled her hair, breathing in the fragrance of baby shampoo, rosemary oil and that special scent that rose from her young, fresh skin. She was so delicious, Elise thought, tightening her grip.
“Ima!” liana finally squirmed.
Reluctantly, Elise released her. It was going to be such a long day for her; even longer than usual. She hated having liana in day care. She missed her terribly, and knew the child was confused and upset by her exile from home and from her mother. But there was nothing to be done. “I’m sorry I won’t be at the recital, liana. But Aba will tell me all about it . . .”
“But you won’t see me, Ima! I can do it for you now!” She started dancing, hands on hips. Then all at once, she leapt across the room, landing smack in the middle of the bed.
“liana! What are you doing!?” Elise shouted, cradling herself protectively, her voice shaking. She pushed liana off the bed.
The child stared, her eyes widening, her mouth trembling in a doomed attempt to hold back the sobs, which finally culminated in a terrible wail of insult and injustice.
“Uh-oh, everything all right in here?” Ruth enquired, sticking her head into the room.
“Fine—go on, liana. Can’t you see Ruth’s waiting?” Elise said, mortified and miserable. liana went limp as Ruth bent down to pick her up. The child laid her head on the neighbor’s shoulder, sucking her thumb as she stared at her mother in wordless disappointment.
Elise stared back, helplessly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that child . . . It’s all my fault. I’m so totally useless. Jon won’t let me do anything . . .”
“Don’t blame yourself! Just enjoy it
while you can, Elise. When the baby comes, you can forget about lying in bed at all hours . . . Remember what I say.” She grinned.
“Don’t I know it? Is it seven-thirty yet?”
Ruth checked her watch. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”
“Put on the radio, will you?”
“Do you really want to start your day with the bad news?”
“Why bad?”
“What other kind is there these days?” Ruth murmured, fiddling with the dials until the familiar beep-beep-beep that heralded the news suddenly went on and both women fell into a tense silence.
For the last two years, news broadcasts had brought horrors into their lives that neither could have ever imagined. Suicide bombers detonating themselves in children’s playgrounds, sending baby carriages flying, killing grandchildren and their grandmothers. Sniper fire into the foreheads of ten-month-old babies in their carriages. The bloody murder of two fourteen-year-old boys, playing hooky to gather firewood for the Lag B’Omer bonfires, their beautiful young faces found crushed beyond recognition in a nearby cave. Crimes that belied the humanity of those who had committed them. Today the news opened with the funerals of two sixteen-year-old yeshiva students killed by a terrorist who walked into their dorms and opened fire; and the Israeli army attack on the car of a wanted terrorist, in which a nine-year-old girl was killed as well.
“Why are your eyes wet, Ima?” liana asked.
“Are they?” Elise smiled, wiping her eyes and reaching out to tickle liana’s tummy. Ruth had dressed her in the red T-shirt that said: “I’m pretty enough to eat,” and a pair of blue shorts and brown sandals. She looked adorable.
Iliana giggled, twisting away, trying to tickle Elise back.
Ruth caught the child’s hand: “Say shalom to Ima, liana.”
“Don’t want to. Want to stay home,” she whimpered, squeezing her mother’s elbow with her small fingers.