The Celestial Gate

by Avital Dicker

  The sun was now low on the horizon and the four walked back up to the apartment. No one was particularly hungry, but Sual insisted on making dinner. Who knows when we’ll be able to sit down at a table again, she thought.

  The plan was to leave two hours later. After eating, Sual lay down in the bedroom to rest. Theo stretched out on the living room sofa, fiddling with the TV remote. Then he remembered there was no reception and put the remote down.

  Amalia and Ido went out to the balcony where they shared a cigarette. Amalia looked at the flashes of fire above the Old City. An entire city on fire, she thought, saddened.

  “How did we get to the point where people are destroying generations of history and killing one another?” she said and took a drag. Ido shrugged. “You know,” she continued, “it astounds me every time anew. For all our scientific progress and technology, nothing’s really changed. People are just like they were in the Middle Ages, murdering one another for no good reason.”

  Amalia took a last drag on the cigarette before stubbing it out on the railing.

  “Priests, rabbis, sheiks, and imams, and all their brain-washed, slogan-spouting religious soldiers… all killing in God’s name. But it’s really about power, control, and money,” Ido answered.

  “You know that Yoav broke up my family because of some rabbi who told him I wasn’t dressed modestly or something like that,” Amalia laughed bitterly. “Does that seem normal to you?” she asked without expecting an answer. She sipped at her wine.

  “But Yoav loves you,” Ido said, surprised.

  Amalia turned her face away to hide her tears. “Well, it turned out he loves the rabbi more,” she retorted.

  Although he couldn’t see her expression, Ido could hear the pain in her voice. Without thinking, he grasped her shoulders, turned her toward him, and kissed her lips softly. “Nothing’s changed. I’m still here,” he whispered.

  Amalia, looking into his eyes, stroked his cheek. “Maybe, in another life, we’d have had a chance.” Coming back to the present, she said, “Let’s wake them up. It’s time.”

  Chapter 17

  Nothing could have prepared Anise for the scene outside. She froze at the edge of the sidewalk. The cratered street was stained with blood and all the storefront windows had been blown out. It seemed that all the shops had been looted. Burning rubber tires emitted foul black fumes. Just ten or twelve feet away, her unbelieving eyes saw a dead toddler lying on the ground like a discarded rag doll.

  Yam pulled her away from the gruesome sight. “Don’t look,” he whispered.

  But Anise shook herself free. She walked over and knelt down next to the child. He couldn’t be more than three, she thought, and gently closed his staring eyes. Though the shooting around them resumed, Anise remained frozen in place. She continued to kneel by the child’s side, holding his small hand.

  Bullets whizzed by. Yam crouched and, ducking as best as he could, reached Anise’s side. Gently, he pried Anise’s fingers loose from the child’s hand. “He’s – what? – three years old?” Anise mumbled. Slowly, he helped her to her feet and led her to the side of the street.

  All three moved carefully through courtyards. Every time they spied a running group of masked men, they hurried to hide.

  Just before the end of the street, Mor saw a little playground between two buildings. The place was relatively concealed and the small park was deserted. He went in and positioned himself next to the fence from where he could safely observe the street.

  Still numb, Anise sat down on a swing. God just wouldn’t let things like that happen, she thought.

  Yam, leaning against a tree, watched Anise. Her despair scared him. She can’t give up, he thought. She was his beating heart, the reason he kept going at all.

  “Your father painted Golden Gate, didn’t he?” Mor suddenly asked, interrupting Yam’s train of thought.

  “That’s right,” said Yam. “I can’t believe I couldn’t remember its name. But there’s something else I completely forgot. The earlier name of Golden Gate was Gate of Mercy. We need to be looking for Gate of Mercy! Mercy…” he mused, struck by his own insight. “My dad also told me that the gate, in reality, isn’t one gate. He only painted one, it’s actually a double gate with two arches. One is called the Gate of Repentance and the other the Gate of Mercy. Christians believe that Jesus arrived in Jerusalem through this gate, and that’s how it came to be called Golden Gate. Jews believe that the Messiah will come from there. I think I told you that the gate leads to the part of the Temple Mount that’s sacred to the Muslims. They built a cemetery just outside the gate to block the way to the Jews’ Messiah.”

  “Yeah, I heard that too. The Muslims buried forty brave warriors there to fight the Jewish Messiah and keep him from entering.” It was Anise, who’d suddenly come out of her torpor, filling Yam with relief.

  “So it’s actually the same stone gate and the exact same God, only the dumb interpretations that vary depending on the religion,” said Mor excitedly, leaping to his feet. “Listen up! I think we found it!”

  “Found what?” Anise asked.

  “The Lost Gate,” answered Mor.

  Chapter 18

  Entering the Old City, the first thing that struck Sual was the oh-so-familiar smell: the scents of aromatic spices, strong coffee, and fresh pitas mixed with body odor. Even the stink of gunpowder couldn’t erase it and, for a moment, Sual was once again that frightened nineteen-year-old girl carrying a blonde baby girl in her arms. She breathed into the anxiety that was climbing up her throat. That young woman doesn’t exist anymore, she reminded herself.

  The thought that Anise was wandering these alleyways terrified Sual. Her mother had always warned her that this city had yet to give up most of its secrets. Sual remembered the afternoon that, on a lark, she – she must have been around eight – and her girlfriends followed a group of boys roaming through the Old City. They’d been tracking them for about half an hour when – poof! The boys were gone. Just like that, as if the ground had swallowed them up. When she got home and excitedly told her mother about it, Aisha got very angry and scolded her harshly, telling her she was talking nonsense, that there was no city under the city, and that she should hurry up and cut up the vegetables for the salad. Sual never brought it up again, but she’d become convinced there was something underground. She saw the boys disappear with her own eyes, and an underground city was the only rational explanation.

  Theo, stunned, looked at the burning tires and scorched car skeletons, a silent memorial to the last few days’ events. He shook himself into action, and he and his three companions crossed the road under the cover of darkness. Sual recognized the hotel with the wrought-iron gate across from them. The place where her life had changed in an instant. Funny, she thought. Back then, when she realized she was pregnant, she’d gone back to the hotel hoping to find someone who remembered the American journalist. She’d stood to the side, waiting for the balding receptionist in his wrinkled, sweat-stained shirt to become available. But when his small eyes finally looked at her, she’d panicked and run out.

  Now Ido signaled for them to stop. Sual recognized the Jewish Quarter.

  “Last chance to back out,” he said. None of them answered. “All right,” he sighed, “you’re now on your own.” He held out a piece of paper to Theo. “This is an emergency contact. They’ll know how to find me at this number.” The two men shook hands.

  Ido stared at Amalia for a long moment. He was finding it difficult to say goodbye. “Take care of yourselves,” he said finally and disappeared into the dark.

  The way to the Gate of Mercy went past the Temple Mount. Anise, Mor, and Yam found shelter behind an abandoned building near the Mount’s entrance plaza from which they could observe the plaza with relative safety.

  The plaza was teeming with activity. A group of masked men blocked the entrance and patrolled the perimeter. Mor
counted three vehicles arriving to unload equipment.

  Suddenly, from above, came a loud thwacking noise. Looking up, Mor saw two combat helicopters circling overhead. Armed men scattered over the plaza, madly shooting magazine after magazine at the choppers.

  “I can’t tell them apart anymore,” Anise whispered, “Who’s shooting who? Everybody looks the same.”

  “The helicopters have to be the army’s,” said Yam.

  Someone threw a teargas canister and it went off with a loud bang. Men in military uniforms appeared out of the blue and surrounded the plaza. The terrorists drew back and ducked for cover. A missile was fired, hitting one chopper, which started to lose altitude while billowing with smoke.

  Suddenly, Mor felt a hand on his shoulder and leaped back while aiming his weapon.

  “You always pop out of nowhere,” he scolded the little boy who smiled back at him fearlessly, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. The boy wore five watches on his arm. Mor was amused to see their young guide’s bulging pants pockets. “You’re quite the little businessman,” he laughed.

  “Ask him if he knows another way to the gate,” Yam asked Anise, who repeated the question in Arabic.

  The boy nodded yes but didn’t move and pointed instead at Yam’s sunglasses with determination.

  Yam hesitated. He’s saved his allowance for six whole months to buy these Ray-Bans.

  “Are you kidding me?” Anise yelled, incredulous. Reluctantly, he handed the sunglasses to the boy who cheerfully put them on and then pointed at Mor’s watch.

  Mor made a face, but removed it, and watched as the boy shoved it into his already full pocket.

  “The watch can’t be worth that much if he’s not putting it on,” Yam laughed.

  With a boom that shook the earth, the damaged chopper crashed onto the plaza, throwing hot metal bits and glass shards in every direction. The three friends quickly threw themselves to the ground.

  “This is an excellent time to skedaddle,” Mor yelled, trying to make himself heard over the noise. Weirdly, none of these events seemed to bother the little merchant who hadn’t budged, completely indifferent, now holding his hands out for Anise’s earrings.

  “Enough already,” Yam turned pugnacious. It made no impression on the kid, who calmly crossed his arms and refused to move.

  “Forget it. This is not the time to dicker.” Anise removed the small gold earrings her mother had given her for her birthday. These earrings, which she had coveted so badly a few months ago, now seemed meaningless.

  The boy smiled with satisfaction, pushed them deep into his pocket, and motioned for them to follow.

  They walked behind the child along the blood-blotched, burned-out streets. All of a sudden, the boy motioned for them to duck, while he himself disappeared. They barely had time to squat behind a parked car before a group of armed men came running around the corner and surrounded a nearby house.

  “How did he know they were coming?” whispered Anise. It both astonished and saddened her that this eight-year-old was so good at ducking bullets.

  Mor then noticed the curtains of a third-floor apartment being hastily drawn, followed by a spray of bullets from there. As the armed men shot, the child reappeared, again as if out of nowhere, using the developing exchange of fire to sneak out of the alley.

  They managed to cover the rest of the way without incident, hearing only echoes of shots from nearby streets.

  The boy suddenly stopped at the corner. “From there,” he said, pointing at the entrance to the Muslim cemetery. He’d barely uttered the two words before a fireball appeared in the sky, immediately followed by a series of detonations.

  “It’s a missile,” Mor shouted, pushing Yam and Anise into the cemetery and behind one of the tombstones. The missile exploded several hundred yards away, spreading shrapnel and rocks in every direction. Yam looked for the child, but he was gone again.

  “That kid always appears out of thin air and disappears back into it,” Yam mused. He added, “Anyway, it’s too dangerous to keep going. We’re too exposed.”

  Yam was right. In the cemetery, they were sort of protected. Mor and Anise agreed the smart move was to wait until dark and then make for the gate.

  But Yam’s stomach rebelled. They hadn’t eaten since yesterday so, despite the nearby battles, he decided to check out the surrounding streets. He could get lucky and find an abandoned restaurant or grocery store. Mor and Anise tried to convince him to skip the adventure, but Yam insisted and promised he’d be careful.

  Mor and Anise found a hidden spot under a cemetery tree and lay down on the grass. Anise closed her eyes, giving herself up to the rays of the sun. Where is the God who allows babies to be shot to death, she wondered?

  Mor’s hand traced shapes across her back. They’d played this game so many times: he’d draw letters on her back with a finger and she’d try to put them together into a word.

  “You’re tickling me,” she giggled, grateful for the diversion, and tried to concentrate on the letters he was tracing.

  “Anise loves…”

  “Enough!” Guessing the end of the sentence, she cut him off and turned to him, her hands in fists.

  Mor, laughing, tried to grab her hands. For a second, they were kids again, rolling on the grass and giggling.

  Mor eventually managed to pin her arms to the ground, his face just inches from hers. Suddenly, he turned serious. Anise stared into his eyes. His face closed the distance with hers, yet she didn’t move.

  “Are you nuts?!” Both suddenly heard Yam’s loud voice above them and jumped up, their cheeks coloring.

  Anise felt ill at ease. She pulled down her top, which had bunched around her waist, pointedly not meeting Yam’s eye. And she was annoyed at feeling ill at ease. I don’t owe anything to either one, she thought.

  Yam tried to conceal the storm of emotions stirred up by seeing Anise and Mor in one another’s arms. He dropped a kufiyah-wrapped bundle onto the grass. It contained several fresh falafel balls, a large soft sesame pretzel, and several whole tomatoes. “I found an open kitchen window,” he explained, trying not to look at either one.

  “You could have been caught,” Anise reproached.

  “Yes, but I wasn’t,” he answered angrily. He took out a handgun from his bag and put it down next to the food. “I also found this.” He didn’t add that he’d taken it from a corpse in an alley. The memory made him shiver with disgust. The man had been lying in a pool of blood, and Yam had had to flip him over to get at the weapon. But there was no choice. They had to be able to defend themselves.

  Mor and Anise fell on the food, but Yam had lost his appetite. The sight of Anise and Mor in one another’s arms hurt him more than he wanted to admit. Let her do what she wants, he thought in anger. I don’t care.

  After Anise and Mor were done, they packed the few leftovers. The sun was setting, and other than some shadowy figures that every once in a while ran through the darkening courtyards, everything seemed calm.

  The three crossed the cemetery and turned right onto an unpaved path just outside its perimeter.

  “It’s weird, but I remember this place even though I’ve never been here,” Anise said, pointing. “Look – that’s where we turn left, and just beyond there’s a stand of trees. And there’s a bench under the second one,” she said. In fact, just moments later, the three stood under the second tree and stared at the old wooden bench.

  “What, are you some kind of witch, or what?” Mor laughed uneasily.

  Anise ignored him, for – just like earlier in the tunnel – a strange sensation had spread through her body, and she knew with inexplicable certainty that she’d been here once before. With Yam and Mor. It must be a déjà vu because it’s just not possible, she thought in confusion.

  Yam pointed straight ahead. “The gate,” he whispered. Anise looked and her heart sk
ipped a beat when she saw the gate in front of them. The gate that had once been so glorious was now pockmarked and covered in soot.

  “Blocked by stones and sad,” she muttered.

  “Exactly like my father’s painting,” said Yam. “The only thing missing is the hen.”

  “What was the other gate called, the one nobody knows?” Anise asked.

  “The Gate of Repentance,” Yam answered, still refusing to look at her.

  “There is a Jewish saying: ‘Even the fully righteous cannot stand where penitents stand,’” Mor whispered, trying for cynicism.

  “Repentance means regret,” said a thoughtful Anise. In the meantime, Mor aimed the flashlight at the twin gate, which was almost touching the other. The Gate of Repentance, like the Gate of Mercy, was forlorn and impassable.

  Anise was aware that her face was drenched in tears she couldn’t control. Walking close, she touched the ancient blocks that had absorbed centuries, maybe millennia, of smoke and dirt, eventually turning black. There must be a way. I refuse to accept we’ve come all this way for nothing, she thought, staring at the bleak gate in despair. A bat flitted low above, almost touching her hair, and Anise drew back in fear.

  “Ali said the gate would come to you,” whispered Yam.

  “Well, it didn’t,” Anise answered with anger. “It was just a beautiful legend. You were right. There is no God,” she said, swiping at the still-falling tears.

  The Fourth Gate

  Awakenings

  Chapter 19

  That night, Amalia, Theo, and Sual went into every courtyard and stairwell in the Jewish quarter, taking cover every time they heard shooting.

  Time flew by, but there was still no sign of the children. “Where are you, Mor?” Theo muttered into the dark. Explosions sounded in the distance. Sual’s hands were slick with sweat, and her heart beat wildly.

  “We have to find another way,” Theo said. “We’ll never cover the whole city like this, and with every hour we have fewer chances of finding them.”