by Ragen, Naomi
She kissed the stone, now moist with tears, glad that no one could hear her sacrilegious prayer. If there was a God, this was as close as she would ever come to touching Him. Only much later would she remember, with horror, that she had forgotten to include Jonathan in her prayer.
Maria held her cross in the palm of one hand and laid the other flat against the surface. Here I am again, she thought, surrounded by Jewish women, weeping, praying . . . in their own land, the land God promised them, once again being slaughtered by sickening evil. Oh, people called it politics—as Hitler spoke of German pride and German suffering to excuse his crimes. Jewish politicians fought amongst themselves, blaming each other for the causeless hatred that had come their way. They couldn’t see the grinning dark skull, the devil’s own face, behind it all.
Sparrows rested in the strange, dry shrubs that grew impossibly between the stones. And up above, pigeons marched along the parapets like sentinels, flying easily between mosque and synagogue. The men were loud, but the women’s lips moved silently, their bodies swaying. The mosque gleamed with its painted-on gold; the ancient white stones glistened with the rays of the golden sun. Maria’s lips moved in silent prayer, beseeching salvation.
Esther reached out and touched the weathered surface. Its rough-hewn appearance did not prepare her for its almost silky texture, polished to porcelain smoothness by a million entreating hands. She touched the expensive silk that covered her hair. All she had earned, and stored. Her fortune. But a shroud had no pockets. She would go as she had come, naked, to a God she hardly knew. God, she said voicelessly. Forgive us for all our sins. For raising children who don’t know You; grandchildren that got lost because we didn’t show them the way, because we didn’t know the way ourselves. Have mercy. Bring us back our granddaughters, liana, Elizabeth, she wept. Save Jonathan! And help me use all I have been blessed with for the right things before I die.
They backed away slowly, taking small steps as they had seen other women do, out of respect. One did not turn one’s back on the Wall. As they withdrew, they had a sense of leaving behind a presence—call it God, or something else—a spirit of holiness, that hovered around them, almost palpable.
“Buy a string against the evil eye?” one of the beggar women pleaded aggressively, accosting them.
Esther stared at the long red strands that dangled from her hand. “Here, give me all of them,” she said impulsively, handing the woman a wad of bills.
The beggar handed them over gleefully, taking the money and hurrying away before Esther could come to her senses.
“What’s gotten into you? This is all silly stuff . . . idolatry.” Leah pursed her lips in disapproval, scandalized. It was almost pagan, this kabalah nonsense, and they were at the holy Wall.
“Here, take these! Tie them into knots. Remember, Leah, like that night? . . .”
“She’s right. Say the words, Leah!” Ariana demanded.
“Do it, darling.” Maria embraced her. “Come. Sit down here. I’ll be right back.”
There was a low stone wall that faced the Wall. Maria returned with a handful of earth taken from the base of a tree. She dampened it with bottled water
“What do you think you’re doing?” Leah asked them.
“The Pulse de Noura, of course. This time, against the terrorists.”
“But it was never real! I made the whole thing up.”
“What!?”
“But you said . . . the rabbi, the mystic . . . the kabalah!” Ariana protested.
“Do you think they ever made one in my village? And if they had, do you think they would have let me, a young girl, watch a kabalistic ceremony?! I made it all up, I tell you. Every word. I did it to make you feel better. To give you hope!”
Ariana gasped, then chuckled. “It worked. Something came over me. Un sentiment that I had nothing to lose. The idea that once they opened the doors and began to herd us inside les trains, it would be la mort, I’electricite for all of us. And besides, I always imagined myself a great actrice.”
“You were magnificent!”
“Amazing!”
Ariana blushed. “It was not so bad.”
“I still remember how I felt when I saw you suddenly barking orders like a kapo, telling people to move this way and that way, pushing people out of the way, waving those pages you tore out of my old prayer book over your head, saying that you had orders to take us out because we had a communicable disease and weren’t fit to serve the Reich . . .” Leah laughed.
“And the way everyone suddenly fell into step, moving out of the way, clearing the doors, letting us go.” Maria held her face in her hands. “To this day, I still see that train loading up, all those women getting on. And then the doors pulling closed and the next train whistling in the distance, pulling in . . .”
“By then, the SS had arrived with another group of girls . . . Remember how the officer in charge couldn’t explain why we hadn’t gone with the first group?”
“When I saw the next train pull up, and how they started to force us on, I remember looking ahead at the fence. I was fifteen steps away from it . . . I could almost feel the choque, the burning heat rip through my body.”
“I had already said my ‘Shma.’”
“I also gave myself Last Rites . . .”
“I was shaking all over, thinking I would soon see my mother again . . . ”
“Did you understand what was happening right away, Ariana?”
“No, not exactly. I saw the planes, but I didn’t understand they were Allied and they were deliberately bombing the tracks, the train. Only when I saw all the SS run away and leave us, I understood: it was les Americains.”
“It was a miracle.” Leah nodded. “A miracle. But just as the miracles of Egypt didn’t happen without God’s messenger, we needed you, Ariana. You were our Moses. If you hadn’t convinced them to let us out of that barracks, our miracle would have come too late; we would have already been on a train on our way to the front . . .” She shivered, suddenly cold in the Middle Eastern sun. “Or blackened corpses, clinging to the fence . . .”
“But it was Maria who actually pushed us through. I didn’t have la force”, Ariana insisted.
“And it was Leah who was the first one to march out through the soldiers. If she hadn’t, I don’t know if I would have had the courage,” Maria admitted.
”Or I.” Ariana nodded.
“We did it together Destroyed the German army. The Third Reich. And we survived. We outlived them all.”
They suddenly moved toward each other, pressing their old bodies together, barely noticing the shocking changes that the years had brought: the soft, heavy flesh where once there had been hard, young bones; the ridged skin that once lay flat and smooth.
Their bodies meshed again into one flesh, the lifeblood sharing its warmth, coursing through them strong and undefeated, giving them life.
“And we can do it again. Destroy these terrorists . . . these monsters . . .” Esther whispered.
“But I feel so foolish,” Leah protested weakly. “Besides, I don’t remember a word of it. These days, I’m happy I remember what street I live on . . .”
“But I do remember.” Maria comforted her, pulling away. “You said: ‘Destroy the destroyer. Make impediments to all he does, revoke his rule and destroy his tools.’ You think I didn’t use this on the Communists in Poland . . .?” She chuckled. “It worked there too!”
“And there was a circle. Remember?” Ariana said, getting up and pulling the others with her. “Now you must step inside the circle.”
Leah felt suddenly light, filled with a strange sense of momentum, of things moving quickly out of control. They knotted the red strings. Made the clay figure. She stepped into the circle, the words suddenly coming back to her: “In the name of the Holy One, His secret name I invoke. Destroy the evil that seeks our deaths. Bring a vast destruction to all that is theirs.” And as she said it, she smashed the earth figure beneath her feet. They pressed it beneat
h their heels, grinding it into dust.
God forgive me, Leah thought, wondering what furies she had unleashed.
Chapter Thirty-six
Kala el-Bireh, Samaria
Friday, May 10, 2002
3:30 P.M.
IT WAS JUST after sunset when the three cars pulled into the clearing behind the house in Kala el-Bireh. The twelve tires made a soft crunching sound on the unpaved road as their engines turned off. Two of the cars kept their headlights on and their doors closed. The third flung open its doors and four men jumped out. With one exception, each wore a ski mask and fatigues that were the official uniform of Hamas terrorists; they carried hand grenades, an automatic weapon and a sophisticated array of listening devices. “Muchanim?” the tallest one asked in Hebrew. His two colleagues, highly trained members of the counterterrorist unit of the Israeli army, and a Shin Bet informer called Ismael Abadi, nodded their assent. The police checked their assault rifles. Ismael went first. He knocked on the door.
“It’s Ismael.”
The door opened, and all four men walked through.
“Kayf Halak?” Ismael asked politely.
“Al-hamdulilah”, the men answered with a sullenness Ismael had not expected.
“Marwan says for you to come down, alone.”
“Ana mish araf . . .” Ismael said doubtfully. “I’m in a hurry . . .”
“Waj ab zibik!” A shout came from the chambers below. “You will come down here now!” Bahama screamed up at him.
Ismael exchanged glances with his masked companions, then nodded.
“Mafeesh mushkilla.” Ismael walked slowly down the stairs. “Relax.”
The heavy metal door was already flung open for him, he noted, but no one seemed to be down there waiting. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Bahama came out of nowhere, with all the venom and swiftness of a cobra. “You have come to collect my prisoners?” he screamed.
“I got these orders, just as you did, my brother. They are from headquarters, from Musa.” He held up the computer printout. “Check it against your own.”
Bahama grabbed the paper. “These are not from Musa.”
Ismael wiped his brow. “What makes you say that? I checked it. It did not have the alarm code.” (The word “Jihad,” followed by an exclamation point, indicated that the e-mail contents were being sent under duress. Ismael had warned Shin Bet agents in France to watch out Musa didn’t slip it in. Could there have been a screw-up?) “Did yours have the code?” Ismael felt the sweat on the back of his neck drip into his collar.
Bahama slammed the paper down. “No. No code! But whoever gave these orders is a traitor! Hamas never gives in!”
“No one gives in, Marwan Bahama. The operation goes on. Just not with you. You are too involved. The Zionist pilot Ron Arad has been a prisoner over twenty years, and each year it is another knife in the heart of the Zionists. The doctor and the child are a sword over their heads. You will be rewarded, Marwan. Everybody says you are the next in line for promotion . . .”
“Yes?” Bahama said, slightly mollified.
“But you want them dead too fast. Hamas has plans.”
“What plans?”
Ismael shrugged. “I only know my orders. Get them ready.”
Bahama did not look him in the eye. Instead, he sat down and put his feet up on a desk, scattering the papers to the floor. He took out a hunting knife and began to clean his fingernails. He seemed unsure of his next step. He looked up at Ismael. “And what if I tell you one or both of them might not be here anymore?”
Ismael put his hands into his pockets, jingling his change. “Is that what you are telling me, brother?”
“Maybe.”
Ismael’s heart sank. Something unexpected had gone wrong. But what?
“And that you did it without orders? And that you now defy the direct orders of Musa el Khalil to hand them over to me? Is that what you are saying?”
“I want to speak to Musa. To explain.”
“I don’t know how to contact Musa. Do you?”
Bahama scowled. “You sweat like a pig, my brother,” Bahama told him, circling him slowly, running the knife blade lightly around the circumference of Ismael’s chest.
“Hamsin.” Ismael shrugged. “You need an air conditioner.”
“Yes, and a villa in Jaffa with fruit trees . . . What did you tell them that they take the operation out of my hands and put it into yours?”
“What do I know?” he suddenly shouted, pushing the blade aside roughly. “What are you hiding? What have you done with the Jews?!” he screamed.
Bahama took a startled step backward and blinked. He was thrown off balance, his arrogance fading. He was hiding something, something that was not in his control, Ismael realized.
“I just need to speak to Musa, that’s all. To explain . . .”
“And waste time!” Ismael screamed. He took the safety lock off his weapon. Marwan’s second in command immediately raised his weapon, aiming right between Ismael’s eyes. Ismael lowered his gun. “Do you know what happens to brothers who question Musa el Khalil?”
“It is my operation! Mine!” Bahama screamed back. “Before I let the Zionists out, I have to see who is in charge.”
“Then the two are still here?”
“I didn’t say yes, and I didn’t say no,” he said, with strange playfulness, in singsong mockery. “And what is not here now can be brought back here soon. But right now, I am still giving the orders. I want to see who is waiting in the car outside.”
Ismael shrugged. He took his sibha, prayer beads, from his pocket and began to fondle them rhythmically. “You have nothing to worry about. The Zionists will not escape. There are three cars. Twelve of us.”
“I will check.” Bahama put his knife into his pocket and swung an AK-47 assault rifle over his shoulder, a weapon designed by the Soviets to kill from up to a range of one thousand meters. In his pocket, he shoved a high-capacity magazine holding one hundred rounds of bullets, each one capable of piercing a bulletproof vest of titanium.
Ismael began to follow him up the steps.
Bahama turned: “No! You wait here.” He turned to his second in command. “If something happens . . .” The other man nodded.
Ismael watched Bahama’s feet resume their climb. He looked toward the red iron door locked and bolted at the end of the corridor, wired with enough explosives to turn him and everyone else in the building into ash. Clutching his sibha, he slowly began to count: How many until Bahama reached the cars parked outside? How many until they rolled down the windows and spoke to him? As he counted, the years of his life rolled before him: His childhood. His father’s death. His mother’s remarriage. How he had joined the Hamas. The smell of the explosives, the dead bodies, the torn limbs. The decision to be a soldier, not a baby-killer The secret meetings with the Shin Bet . . .
What would happen, he thought, when the men in the cars saw Bahama approach them? He counted off the beads: one for his wife, one for each child, one for his own life . . .
Marwan Bahama had no fear as he approached the headlights of the waiting cars. He was filled with anger, hurt pride and guilt. Soon these people would know his secret shame. There was no way to stop it. That’s why it was so important for him to find out who they were, to see their faces, or, at the very least, to have the name of their cell. If they decided to use the information against him, he’d have no choice but to take care of each and every one of them. He walked quickly, his gun over his shoulder.
About ten steps away, he paused. He took his weapon into his hand and loaded the magazine, all the while aware that the men in the cars had him in their headlights. He pointed the gun skyward as he slowly approached the first car. He tapped on the side window. When nothing happened, he started to curse, spitting at the glass and lowering his weapon.
Slowly, the window began to move downward. He pointed the gun upward again, sticking his head belligerently inside the window.
“Es salaam alei
kum.”
“Wa aleikum es salaam”, the driver responded.
Bahama relaxed. “Where do you take the Jews?”
“We cannot say, our brother.”
“Who is the leader of your cell?”
“I am.” A voice came from the back of the car. Bahama peered into the darkness.
“Give me the code name for your cell, my brother.”
There was silence.
“The code name!” Bahama screamed, lifting his weapon, cocking the firing pin and putting his finger inside the trigger guard as he closed the breech.
“Jihad fi sabili-Llah.”
He took his finger off the trigger. “And where are you located?”
“This, as you know my brother, we cannot say.”
He knew this was true. “Where do you take the Zionists?” he repeated insistently.
“To a safe house in the Jordan Valley, then by boat from Aquaba to Cyprus. A plane waits to take them to our brothers in Iran.”
“Why so far? You will never get through the roadblocks . . . and the Jordanians are unreliable!” He spit contemptuously. Then reconsidered. What did it matter if the operation was taken out of his hands and then met with catastrophic failure?
“Will you bring them now? We must hurry, brother.”
“Take off your masks. Let me see your faces,” he demanded.
There was a deadly calm.
“This we cannot do, my brother,” a voice he had not heard before said calmly in perfect Palestinian Arabic.
Bahama seemed to hesitate. He took out a flashlight and slowly shined it into the eyes of the masked men, lighting up their faces one by one, pausing more than once. No one moved. Finally, apparently satisfied, he shut it off. “Wait,” he said, turning his back and walking briskly toward the second car. Halfway there, they saw him suddenly crouch, lowering his gun and pointing it in their direction in what seemed to be firing position.