To Mom and Dad, for being in my life.
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Forced Silence
Vered Cohen Wisotzki
Copyright © 2021 Vered Wisotzki
All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.
Translation from the Hebrew by Yosef Bloch
Contact: [email protected]
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Message from the Author
Prologue
November 2000
Somewhere in Northern Samaria
“Naama, I wish you’d reconsider. I have a really bad feeling about the demonstration. I hear what you’re saying, you and your friends. Of course we need to protest these terror attacks. You think I don’t care? Sarah Leah — rest in peace — was my friend too. But I don’t like the way they get you fired up. How far will it go this time? Your friends are pouring gas on an open fire! And what do you think the police will do? They don’t play around! There’s no way they’ll just let you shut down Bar-Ilan Junction.”
“Mom, I don’t care if you let me go or not. What difference does it make? God is on our side.” The look in her daughter’s eyes said it all. “This time, the entire country will hear about our demonstration. We won’t ignore one Molotov cocktail, one rock that they throw at us. You think someone needs to get me fired up? No, this is about what I believe, how I feel about all of this. After everything that happened last week to poor Sarah Leah and the kids, with these idiot cops still apologizing for using excessive force against out-of-control terrorists… anyone who attacks us deserves what they get! Is there one sane Jew in the country who isn’t fed up? All of our lives are in danger! Look, if those bleeding hearts in Tel Aviv won’t leave their cafes to protest against terror and our worthless cops, we have no choice. We have to protest, right in their faces, to scream and shout until they listen. Silence is not an option. Not anymore.”
Her determination, etched on her face, made it clear that the cause was part of her very identity. She knew that she had a duty to demonstrate, to express the grief of her neighbors who had suffered endless attacks since the outbreak of the Second Intifada: stones hurled at their cars, their fields set ablaze, on and on. She wasn’t surprised that her mother disagreed; Mom was always worried about the proverbial powder keg.
That was the consensus of the headlines as well: “An Explosion,” all the papers warned, was inevitable. But Naama was beyond caring.
Office of Avraham Meyerson, Editor-in-Chief of the Hadashot Ha-Aretz newspaper
“Galia, are you really going to this pointless demonstration? On a rainy day, no less?”
Galia stood, leaning on the desk, looking into his eyes. His concern for her was sincere, but at this point, nothing could stop her. She felt the fire burning in her bones: something big was coming.
“Don’t worry, Avi, I won’t melt,” she teased him, though she knew that his hesitation had nothing to do with the weather. “I’ve been working on this series for weeks, and covering this protest is my pièce de résistance. I can’t miss it.”
She was determined; it was her destiny. She knew that if she wanted to break out of the rut of anonymity and become a first-class reporter, she had to complete the series she had begun with the outbreak of the Intifada. She also knew that she had to record the responses from all demographics. She had already reported on many demonstrations by Israeli Arabs during the past month. These demonstrations were no simple matter, some of them even descending into violent confrontation between rioters and police. But even then, fear had never been an option for her. Her pieces were in demand; she was known for her journalistic integrity. She could understand the reason for a given demonstration, but she did not hesitate to criticize the behavior of the protesters or the response of the police if it was inappropriate. She had covered and even participated in some right-wing demonstrations recently, but within her innermost being she felt that this one had special significance. She would not pass up the opportunity. Hundreds of settlers, suffering endless attacks from the neighboring Arab villages, planned to attend this demonstration.
She had no intention of ignoring that.
“Galia, no one knows better than me how important it is for you to cover the demonstration tomorrow at Bar-Ilan. I’m just trying to prevent you from being in the right place at the wrong time.”
For the first time since they had begun to work together, her editor did not share her enthusiasm. He was afraid that the demonstration would lead to a flare-up, and as the police had already heard enough criticism of their actions over the past month, he was worried that the commissioner’s desire to dispel any impression of impotence would lead him to react harshly towards the Jewish demonstrators as well.
January 2005
Somewhere in Northern Samaria
Hysteria…
“Sir!” Elisha Weiss burst into the office of Rabbi Elyashiv Bender. The aide was at his wits’ end, worried about what might happen. He stood before the rabbi, who was seated. Because Elisha was short, he could look straight into the rabbi’s piercing blue eyes. “Sir, I’m worried. Everything is out of control!”
“Nothing is out of control,” the rabbi attempted to calm him. He rose from his seat and limped over to the window of his office. “True, not everything is going as anticipated, but let’s not be disheartened. We knew what to expect, after all. This is family, and you don’t turn your back on family, Elisha. We have no choice, we must steadfastly face the situation and deal with it…”
“But sir!” The trembling voice of the aide cut him off. “It would be the height of irresponsibility to expose the yeshiva once again to police investigations. We are unprepared for such an attack. They’ll make it here. You know that they are certainly already on their way. We have just a few months until they arrive to try to evacuate us. We cannot endanger ourselves now. Of course they are family, but if the rest of our friends in the yeshiva were to know about the girl…”
The rabbi raised his hand to dam the flood of words from his aide. He moved with obvious discomfort. The words hurled at him clearly disturbed him. He agreed with every one of them. The yeshiva was in danger, and he knew what would happen; but he had no ability to stop it.
“We will be ready for them, Elisha, don’t worry. The preparations have already begun.”
There was a great tumult outside his office. It seemed that the Karnei Re’em yeshiva was filled with the sound of fierce arguments alongside the words of prayer: “Send your light and truth to its leaders, officers, and advisors; appoint at its head God-fearing men of valor, men of truth who despise ill-gotten gain…”
Chapter One
Haifa District Court
“Your honors,” Ram Levinsky beg
an. The prosecutor trembled slightly as he rose, furious but contained in his opposition, after his aide had approached and whispered in his ear. “I cannot imagine even one good reason for the defendant Galia Yellin to be released to house arrest — despite the request of the security services, which I have only just been informed of.” His face was red with anger. He was aware of his responsibility as a prosecutor and the weight of the judges’ verdict. He knew that the entire justice system was behind him, expecting him to do his utmost to prosecute the defendant to the fullest extent of the law. He looked at the faces of the three judges on the bench. Initially, he hadn’t had the slightest doubt that the defendant would remain imprisoned until the conclusion of the proceedings, but now it seemed that he had been wrong.
The uproar outside, with supporters and opponents confronting each other, was very much like the uproar on the judges’ bench. Though the latter kept to hushed tones, they seemed to be having a heated argument. They were agreed about keeping the defendant under arrest and putting her on trial at the earliest opportunity, but they were also aware of the possibility raised by the police and the General Security Service, that releasing her to house arrest might help the investigation and allow them to catch her accomplices. Finally, Judge Ofra Hacohen spoke.
“Counselor.” The judge raised her hand to calm Levinsky. “You don’t need to enlighten us; we are aware, as is the whole country, of the seriousness of the defendant’s actions. The victim of her crime is not one man, but the entire country — a country based on law and democracy, in which freedom of speech is sacrosanct, unless predicated on actions which are against the law. The defendant’s actions have rocked this nation and its democratic institutions to their very core. ‘Violence is undermining the very foundations of Israeli democracy. It must be condemned, denounced, and isolated,’ as Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, God rest his soul, told us. Adjudicating her case is not a matter to be taken lightly, and the court has no intention of doing so,” she declared with conviction.
“However,” she continued, “we must consider that the defendant has pleaded guilty and her interrogation has already begun, as of last night. She remains closely guarded. Therefore, we find no reason to prevent her release to house arrest, especially since the security services have explicitly requested this, their reasons being their own.” The judge adjusted her robe and looked at the defendant, whose face was blank as she sat silently and gazed into the distance. The judge tried, without success, to quell her own doubts about the defendant’s guilt.
The prosecutor rose to his feet again, but Hacohen raised her hand again to preempt his objection. “Counselor, do not force me to belabor the point. The court finds the request of the investigative team to release the defendant to house arrest to be legitimate. We have no intention of interfering in an ongoing police investigation.”
“But your honor, the evidence clearly shows—”
“Calm down, Mr. Levinsky.” Hacohen’s obsidian eyes flashed with anger. “The defendant is a public figure, holding an esteemed position, and the mother of a young child. It is our finding that she has no intent to flee. The court would be grateful if you could make the arrangements for her house arrest before the day’s end.”
Galia Yellin, the defendant, avoided the judges’ eyes.
The last few minutes had seemed an eternity. She had been frozen in place listening to the prosecutor as he laid out his case. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and a cold sweat covered her entire body, her gaze focused directly ahead. The judge’s words undermined her façade of calm a bit.
“What the hell, Roni?” Galia whispered to her lawyer as they left the courtroom. “I pleaded guilty, so why house arrest? I told you how important it was for all the blame to fall on me. We can’t let the cops investigate further and look for more guilty parties. I told you, no bail and definitely no house arrest.”
Roni Shechter, her lawyer, did not reply; his reproving face said it all.
Galia sensed someone staring at her from behind and turned around. She knew exactly when he had entered the hall. She knew exactly what his face would look like, and she knew, with a heavy heart, how his body would be hunched.
Doron stood at the entrance to the hall. The anguish in his gaze showed that he did not believe in her guilt. She looked away so as not to betray her own emotions. She wanted so badly to rush into his arms, to explain everything to him, to give him the chance to help her. Instead, she ignored him. She focused on the female guard accompanying her back to the prison cell, until her house arrest could be arranged.
That evening, she arrived home, accompanied by her lawyer and a guard who repelled the curious reporters as well as the spectators who crowded around and followed them to her building. The inclement weather did not prevent some of them from gathering at the street corner, holding signs condemning her actions and denouncing the national-religious community, as if she belonged to it. Murderer! Enemy of Democracy! the signs declaimed. One redheaded young woman gazed at her with disgust, with her sign denouncing the Orange Mob — orange being the color adopted by the right-wing protest movement.
As her lawyer droned on about what would happen over the next few days, Galia turned a deaf ear. He was reluctant to leave her alone, but she insisted.
She felt somewhat better once Roni had left. Now she didn’t have to give any more explanations, to pretend that she didn’t know what she needed to do and what she ought to expect. Still, when he walked out the door, it felt like the last drops of her strength evaporated. Her guard stayed outside her apartment, and she walked through it and out on the balcony to calm herself, a glass of Chablis in her hand.
Despite the late hour, the gloomy sky could be seen contrasting with the sparkling lights of Haifa Bay. Heavy rainclouds still loomed, and she shivered — From the cold? From the terror which gripped her thinking about her daughter? She sipped the wine, hoping that it would do its work and calm her down. Perhaps she could overcome the fear gripping her and think rationally about what her next move should be. The muscles of her neck and shoulders were painfully stiff and throbbing. She closed her eyes, trying to settle down, but nothing helped, not even long drags on her cigarette. It seemed that panic had settled on her balcony, and there was no getting rid of it, despite the fierce cold and the fat drops of rain spattering on the tiles.
The wine was doing nothing for her, so she poured the dregs over the railing. Battling a sudden urge to fling the wineglass and enjoy the sound of its smashing far below, she wrapped herself in her sweater and strode back into the warm apartment. The wave of heat rolled over her, restoring her composure for a moment. When had she ever needed a drink to relax? She had always been determined and even-keeled. That equanimity had led her, a few years prior, to quit her job at Hadashot Ha-Aretz, and her resoluteness had driven her to join forces with investors who believed in her and her abilities, allowing her to become a partner in managing a local paper, Our Haifa. She became the managing editor and editor-in-chief. After a few months, the paper went from struggling to successful, eventually becoming one of Israel’s leading periodicals. From the owner to the entire staff, everyone appreciated her contribution — not only her journalistic skills, but her tireless efforts to prevent layoffs and to restore professional dignity to the employees.
Still, all that confidence, all that determination — what good had it done today? She felt as if there was a widening crack in her very soul. Now she was alone in her spacious apartment: caged like a lion, plagued by existential worries. She breathed in the smoke from another cigarette, wondering what had happened. Only forty-eight hours earlier, she had inhabited a totally different world.
***
“Yael, get Nahum for me — I was supposed to get his pictures for the weekend edition an hour ago,” Galia demanded of her administrative assistant.
She was still deep in the middle of a phone call with a photographer from a competing paper, whom she was ho
ping to hire for herself. She seemed quite pleased, as the conversation was going as planned. A satisfied smile settled on her face.
“Okay, where did we leave off? Oh right, I was telling you not to make me wait for your answer. Look, we both know that you’re going to say yes, eventually. You’re not going to find better than what I’m offering you, and you’ll have the opportunity to work on a whole new level. A week from Monday, I expect to see you. Bye!” She set the phone down, pleased. She had just acquired Amit Raz, the leading fashion photographer in Israel. She leaned back in her chair with satisfaction, stretching her long legs, then looked at her planner.
Very good, lunch with Daniel at Maxim, she said to herself, then buzzed her assistant. “Yael, I’m leaving in a couple of minutes for lunch with Daniel. On my desk is a check for deposit; please take care of it by this afternoon, and leave the deposit receipt in my drawer. Also, tell Nahum that if those pictures from the Bat Galim Promenade Festival are not on my desk before I get back, he’s fired.”
“Sorry?” Yael’s voice sounded unsure.
“Try to be convincing. Let’s see if we can’t give his heart a little jolt…”
“No problem, boss. But before you go, Doron is waiting on line 2.”
Galia straightened up in her chair as her heart skipped a beat. Even now, four months after their painful parting, his voice made her emotional.
She took a deep breath and lifted the phone. “Hello?”
“Gali?”
Her heart clenched. He was the only one to call her that. His voice was as soft as always.
“Hi, Doron, what’s up?” She tried to keep from her voice the unease she felt.
“You know, same as always, working hard,” he replied.
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