City of a Thousand Gates

by Rebecca Sacks

  “Yalla,” Gil says.

  Ori is already tying a kaffiyeh over his face.

  Yitzi is on his belly, waiting for his shot. Gil is kneeling by Yitzi. There’s dust all around them, and everyone is sweating. Ido and both of the Tals are providing cover, angled up against the alley wall, their rifles held close. Ido kneels, thankful for his knee pads.

  “That’s it, achi,” Gil says to Yitzi, pointing up at the third-story window where they’re waiting out a terrorist. “Wait for your shot.”

  Ido glances back to see the target move into the window. There it is. A full view of the terrorist in the window.

  “Permission to fire,” Yitzi shouts, but just as he does, the fucking call to prayer whines through the fake city. Allahu Akbar, trills the voice that Yitzi is shouting over now. “Permission to fire!” he screams, and then fires into the open window.

  When Ido’s mind stays out of the way, his body knows what to do. When to crouch, when to roll. No need for thinking, no need for a decision. He rolls through the dirt through a doorway, lands on one knee—primed, ready. He knows where all his unit-mates are. They call out to one another. Their voices, his voice, their voices, his voice. Nothing in the world is this simple, this true. Nothing feels this good.

  Ido and Ori are dead. Ido was taken out by friendly fire, cus emek, Erez; Ori was taken out by one of the Tals. All day, Ido had been looking forward to the urban combat drill, and now here he is—dead in a room with a dirt floor. Outside, he can hear Gil telling someone to move faster. Ori is on his phone, leaning against a once-white wall, kaffiyeh draped around his shoulders. His notifications are on, and every second the phone makes a jarring bell sound at apparently the highest possible volume setting. From across the room, Ido uses all his restraint to not tell the kid to put his phone on silent. That would make him look old. Wouldn’t it?

  Tentatively, Ido asks, “Girlfriend?” hoping it sounds casual.

  Ori looks up. “What?”

  “Is there a girlfriend?”

  Ori runs a hand over his buzz cut. It’s a gesture of agitation that Ido remembers from the days of his own buzz cuts. “Girls don’t want a combat soldier who comes back horny and smelly once every two weeks,” he says, sounding like he’s quoting someone. “They want a jobnik.” Outside, maybe a block away, there is a crash as a door is smashed in. Neither of them gets up to look.

  Ori’s phone dings three times in rapid succession. He rolls his eyes, moans a little, then leaves a voice recording for someone on the other end. “Beseder, achi, I’ll fix it when I get back,” he says into his phone. He makes an impatient gesture at Ido, as if to say, This idiot, am I right?

  “Your commander?” Ido asks after Ori has put down his phone.

  “When will it end?” Ori responds, a kind of answer. It’s a phrase the enlisted repeat again and again. When will it end? When will it end? Implied answer: the day they finish their mandatory service. The day they cut up their army ID cards. The day they go free. Or that’s what they think. Maybe this is what Ido envies about Ori: he envies that Ori can envy him. A young soldier believes the factors that trap him are conditional. When he gets out of the army, he’ll be free; he’ll be himself. Ido envies anyone who can talk to himself this way, who can say, Just a little bit longer, and really believe it. He doesn’t envy the young guys he sees at the airport sometimes—fresh out of the army, growing out their hair, using their standard-issue packs to make that six-month trip around Nepal or Peru or Thailand. Even them he pities already, pities what they are about to find out: that you can go halfway around the world to a town with a population of twenty-two, including the goats, and you will still find an Israeli who says to you, “Where did you serve in the army, achi?” Israelis everywhere. Israelis in all the hostels, the bus stops. Israelis holding illegal raves in UNESCO ruins. Sherpas who speak Hebrew. All over the world, Israelis looking for something that was never there. He pities the kids he sees in the airport because of the futile years they are going to spend lost, and some of them never come back. You’ll find them washed up and vague on mountains all over India. But in the army, they are waiting for the moment—it’s coming, it’s finally coming—they can feel it coming, and when you are with them, you almost believe it, too. You almost believe that there is a version of yourself—of each of us—a true version, waiting to be found, and as soon as the army lets you go, as soon as your life begins, you’ll find him. You’ll find your true self. He’s out there; he’s waiting for you.

  It was that day in the hospital that taught Ido otherwise, that showed Ido all that he was not. When the bloody head emerged from his wife’s body, Emily wasn’t his wife, wasn’t a woman. In that moment, he had understood that these words—wife, woman—were invented to trap Emily, to trick her into believing that she needed Ido, that she was a lesser version of him, drawn out from his body. It’s a bit of etymology that any Hebrew speaker knows, that Emily learned in Hebrew school. Woman: “ishah” is so-called because from “ish” (man) she was made, that fateful rib. But it’s a lie; he saw it in that hospital room. The truth is the reverse. He came from her. Even the word “ish” fits inside “ishah.” His whole purpose was born and extinguished on the night, whatever night it was, or a Saturday afternoon on the kitchen floor, his hand gripping her hair and she pressing up into his weight, turning away from him as she came and the sound of her coming made him come. He remembers God’s curse to Eve in the garden, remembers that the husband himself is the curse: Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you. But Emily doesn’t need him anymore, doesn’t crave his control anymore. And now, Ido knows, he has to decide whether he wants to spend the coming years trying to be a person that Emily could need, or whether he will hide from the truth he saw in the perfection of Emily’s daughter emerging from Emily’s body.

  Gil appears in the door frame, his face a little red. He’s got a handgun with blanks. “Yalla,” he says, nodding at Ori and at Ido. “We’re starting up again.”

  Ido rises to his feet, heads back out into the late-afternoon sun, a chill in the air now, detectable in the long shadows cast by empty buildings. Ori is taking a selfie with the kaffiyeh covering most of his face, black and white squares, like some Ashkenazi jihadi. Somewhere, a dog is barking. Somewhere, the percussive shudder of a door blown off. Somewhere, a CCTV camera is filming him. Here he is. Here is Ido, a grainy image on the black-and-white footage, below him, the date and time, the seconds whirling by.

  Daughters

  It’s nearly Shabbat, and Miriam is still fussing with her salad dressing.

  “Ima, are you almost ready?” asks little Tovah, sitting at one of the kitchen counter stools while Avital stands behind her to fix her hair, freckled face scrunched in concentration.

  “Another minute, just another minute,” Miriam says, as if she were the daughter and little Tovah the impatient mother. But she wants to get the dressing just right. It calls for, of all things, curry powder—an adventurous choice for Miriam. Ori would love it, but it’s another weekend on base for her son, another Shabbat without him.

  Yuval comes rushing down the stairs, hair wet from the shower and dripping onto his nice Friday-night dress shirt. “Are we almost ready?”

  Avital finishes with Tovah’s hair—a diadem of small braids and the rest of her wild, curly hair down. Daughters of Jerusalem. “We’re ready,” Avital says, that charming gap between her front teeth flashing.

  “Are your phones off?” Yuval asks, powering his down and putting it in the bookcase where all their phones go until Shabbat is over.

  “Ima,” Avital asks, with false severity.

  Miriam tastes the dressing again. Is it too spicy? It’s probably fine. Maybe a little more lemon? No, it’s fine, it’s probably fine. “Coming, coming,” she exclaims, checking her messages from Ori one last time. (Shabbat shalom, Ima, he wrote earlier today and nothing since.) She checks the fridge to make sure the salads are covered, she checks the hot plate to make sure it is turne
d on, she opens the dishwasher to be sure it’s on the automatic setting.

  “Yalla,” Yuval says, “it’s time to light.”

  After Miriam and the girls light the candles—their warmth and glow illuminating her fingers held over her eyes—everyone hugs. “Shabbat shalom,” they say, “Shabbat shalom.”

  They had planned to all walk to services together, but now Miriam finds herself unwilling to leave the glow of the kitchen, the closed doors. “You go ahead,” she says to Yuval and the girls, who are already slipping on jackets and heading for the open door.

  Yuval hesitates. “Are you sure?” he asks. His hair is still wet.

  “Wear a hat,” Miriam says. “And yes, I’ll meet you there.”

  Yuval crosses the room back to her. Clean smell of his aftershave when he kisses her. “We’ll see you soon,” he says.

  The heavy front door closes behind them, and Miriam is alone in her kitchen.

  Now, alone in her house, Miriam goes to each room and checks the windows. Avital’s room is its usual mess—sneakers and sports bras thrown all over. The full-length mirror is unusable ever since Avital insisted that all the girls in her scouts troop sign it in permanent marker: We love you, Avitush!

  Little Tovah’s room is also the family bomb shelter, with reinforced walls and only a small high window. They made sure to fill it with lamps and fairy lights. She still keeps stuffed animals on the bunk bed she shared with Avital back when there were more kids at home and the younger girls shared a room. Didn’t Yael Salomon have a bunk bed?

  Last is Ori’s room. Of course, he’s always had his own room, the little prince. One window looks out over their neighborhood, another at the security fence protecting the settlement. His room is on the second floor, but she checks the windows anyway. She runs her hand along the little hutch desk she bought so many years ago. How many hours did he spend here, studying for the math tests he barely passed? On the wall, a map of Israel unsullied by international boundaries and armistice agreements. A complete Israel. His twin bed is freshly made, ready for him to come home. Blue flannel sheets, warm for winter.

  Just a moment, Miriam thinks. I’ll lie down for just a moment. And then she is curled up on her son’s bed, inhaling what must be the scent of him, but what smells to her more like his deodorant—chemical fruit.

  If she doesn’t get up now, she’ll fall asleep in her son’s bed. She knows that Avital and Tovah must be a bit worried, checking the synagogue entrance every time someone else enters for the service—singing and looking back over their shoulders. So Miriam rises from her son’s bed, touching the dark blue pillow one last time. She rises and she goes downstairs. She grabs a thick sweater from the couch. It should keep her warm enough. Then she exits her home into the glorious, shimmering light that seems unique to the minutes before sundown on Friday. She walks through her settlement’s quiet, carless streets toward the small local synagogue where her family is waiting for her.

  She walks in the middle of the street. No reason not to. Silent Shabbat streets. She does not rush. The time for rushing is over. The week is over. What is lovelier than the peace of a community that observes Shabbat together? All over Gush Etzion, there are birds in the olive trees. No cars on the street. Each week, a miracle.

  And this is why, in a community not far away, Yael Salomon’s mother has paused her seven days of mourning. Not even the most desperate grief overrides Shabbat. A few days ago, the woman was flinging herself over Yael’s grave, unleashing horrible cries that seemed to echo deep inside Miriam’s twisted gut. But today, Miriam imagines, or really, knows, the grieving mother has bathed for the first time since her daughter was buried; she has dressed carefully, her clothes untorn, and put on lipstick, perhaps also a pair of earrings, perhaps ones belonging to Yael; she is walking to the synagogue arm in arm with her neighbors. For this single day, Yael Salomon’s mother must let the world be perfect, because each week, it is indeed perfect—even with Yael not in it. Miriam has heard that for those in profound mourning, Shabbat offers a kind of transcendence. Miriam has seen the mothers of dead sons radiant in their grief. It is possible that pain brings us closer to the Holy One, closer to our own souls. Miriam hopes she never finds out if this is true.

  At some point she stopped walking. She is staring out into some distance, unsure if she can keep going.

  “Shabbat shalom, Miriam!”

  Miriam looks around and realizes she’s standing in front of the Klausmans’ home. Meir’s mother, looking lovely in a vibrant red dress and matching hair covering, is standing at the open door, waving to her.

  “Shabbat shalom.” Miriam waves back. “How are you?”

  “Baruch haShem,” Meir’s ima says to her, then turns to shout into the house in English, maybe to Meir, “Yalla, are you coming?”

  “I’ll see you at shul?” Miriam calls, across the lawn.

  “Yes, see you there,” she shouts back in her charming, British-sounding Hebrew.

  Ori and Meir used to be so close. Privately, Miriam has hoped that they might reconnect, that perhaps old friends might bring Ori back to a more robust observance. Her son has pulled away in stages: choosing not to enlist in a religious unit, wearing his kippa only when he’s home, sleeping through services on Saturday mornings.

  The first time she buzzed his hair, it was the night before she took him to the bus that would take him to basic training. That was over a year ago. How is this possible? But it’s true, over a year ago that he sat before her in a plastic chair on their cement patio, where they keep the washer and dryer under a tarp. Miriam had laid down a garbage bag to catch the honeyed ash of her son’s hair. After, it had pained her to throw it all away. Scraps of his boyhood, gone. How young he looked without his blond hair. How exposed his sweet skull without his kippa.

  And, look, Miriam understands the need to leave childhood behind. She was the first of her family born in Israel. She grew up with Holocaust grandparents living in the basement, dreaming of starvation, sneaking potatoes under their pillows. Even her own mother had been weird about food, weird about watching Miriam eat. She was the only child in a silent house filled with women watching her eat. Lace and the smell of rotting apples. They spoke to her in Yiddish, but she would only answer in Hebrew. She hated Yiddish—its nasal, shtetl kvetch. She wanted strong babies born from the land. So yes, she understands the need to separate, but couldn’t her son do it in some other way?

  Because if Ori walks away from all that they have taught him, from the life they have built for him, then what is the point? What is the point of all of this? This is not a question Miriam asks herself often, but tonight, Yael Salomon’s mother has made blessings over candles without her daughter, and Miriam is asking herself, What is the point of the locked doors and the locked windows, the walls and the barbed wire, the grief, the rocks, the knives, and all the ways there are to die in these territories? These are sacrifices, this is labor—it is the work of a whole life to keep the commandments, to love and tend to this land, the only inheritance that matters. She has tried to give her children a beautiful life, meaning one with purpose and ideals. This life has horrible risks. Nobody needs to tell Miriam that. She is not stupid. But if Ori falls away from them, then what was the point? They might as well live in Tel Aviv. In Berlin, for that matter.

  Stop that, she chides herself. Many people fall off and find their way back again. Many a twisted road can lead to a good life. And anyway, there’s nowhere on earth you can’t be killed for being a Jew. Like being a woman, in that way.

  She has arrived at the modest house of prayer—single-story, white cinder block with a small garden out front. For Torah services on Saturday morning, they go to the big, new shul, built with South African money, all glass and sculpted metal. But for Friday night, the family keeps it local—just a few minutes’ walk away. “Shabbat shalom,” she greets the handful of people lingering on the sidewalk outside. Kisses on cheeks for the women, everyone holding a baby or a prayer book. When she opens
the doors, it’s to a flood of voices harmonizing songs of praise. It is good to give thanks; it is good. She spots her daughters on the women’s side of the room. Her girls in bright skirts and gold hoop earrings. Little Tovah, giggling at something Avital has whispered to her. Miriam slips beside them, whispering hellos and giving little squeezes and smiles. She has come right on time. The congregation turns to face the doors of the synagogue. “Boi b’shalom,” they sing. “Come in peace.” She can hear the sweet, harmonizing strands of her daughters’ voices above the melody of the hymn. Sanctify us, Miriam sings. Sanctify us with the seventh day, again and again, a taste of the world to come, again and again. Somewhere, Yael Salomon’s mother is lifting up her voice. “Boi kallah,” they sing. “Come, bride,” and as they do, they bow. Miriam and her daughters, her husband, her neighbors—to Shabbat, to the Holy One Blessed Be He, and to creation itself. They bow. In a room with almost everyone they love, all of them together. They bow.

  Salem Abu-Something

  Meir throws his weight into the kick. The long ball he sends flying toward Shibi’s end of the field looks like it’s going to land exactly where you want it—inside the eighteen, outside the six. The promised land, Coach calls it. But there’s no time to wait and find out, because the drill calls for a series of push-ups. So it’s down into the grass, still damp from last night’s rain—a smell of life and decay together. Today, Meir is practicing with the starting lineup. If he keeps his head in it, he may get some playing time this week—his first Premier League game, which means being on TV, and everyone seeing him, Liran and Ori for sure. He’s focused. Yet even while he focuses, part of him is remembering the night at the mall, the way the Arab’s face split on the asphalt.