Uri Full of Light

by Holly Sortland

  As she walked out of the hospital doors, Chana felt her baby girl kick hard in her belly.

  She put her hand on her stomach and immediately thought about how she would decorate her daughter's room. She would ask Uri to build a special shelf to place all of Amira's treasures.

  As she stood on the steps outside of the hospital, she was in no mood to call a taxi. She walked a couple blocks to the West and waited at the nearest bus stop. She had another stop to make before she returned home.

  37

  Fifteen minutes later, Chana boarded an Egged bus. As she took her seat, she remembered she wasn't wearing her tichel. She had taken it off at the hospital, feeling suffocating by her emotions of Amira’s death. She took it out of her bag and quickly wrapped it around her head, feeling disoriented and mistrustful of her surroundings. She knew Uri would be furious to know she was taking public transportation, but she felt defiant in her grief.

  She looked at the passengers on the bus. There were women with toddlers in strollers, Hasidic men carefully seated apart from women, and everyday professionals. The thought crossed her mind that one of them might have a bomb attached to them. For a moment, she didn't care. She thought to herself that she didn't want to live in a world where seven-year-old girls died. Angry at HaShem, she questioned why he let such tragedies happen.

  But then she felt her own baby girl move inside her and was reminded that she had an entire new purpose ahead of her.

  She snapped out of her insolent, foggy state of mind, realizing that she had not been paying attention to the bus stops. She got off the bus in a business district near her neighborhood and walked to the nearest business supply store, asking a clerk where she could find a photo printer. She also bought photo paper and two 4 x 6 picture frames.

  As she left the store, Chana realized she was extremely thirsty. After the excitement of the ultrasound and the shock of Amira's death, she had forgotten to drink. She looked down at her feet. Though it was not an overly hot day, her ankles were noticeably swollen.

  The weight of her purse and the supplies she bought from the print shop made her arm feel weak. Although she only had six blocks to walk to her house, she decided to err on the side of caution and catch a cab.

  Suddenly, her vision blurred, odd shaped floaters clouded her eyesight. She felt nauseous and dizzy. Noticing a bench a few feet away, she slowly walked towards it. Before she could sit down, she faded into darkness.

  CHANA OPENED HER EYES to a crowd of people standing above her.

  The first words she heard were, "She’s pregnant, call an ambulance!"

  The person who spoke, a middle-aged man who appeared to be a rabbi, saw that Chana was awake. "She’s awake!" He hollered to the crowd forming around them. "Back up and give her some space!”

  "Madam, are you alright?" he asked her. "Do you need an ambulance?"

  Before Chana could speak, an uncontrollable wave of nausea overcame her. She vomited on the sidewalk.

  Noticing a commotion, a Mišteret officer quickly parked his vehicle and ran to the scene.

  "She's pregnant and she fainted," the presumed rabbi told the officer.

  "And she vomited," another woman who witnessed Chana's ordeal made sure to point out.

  The officer instructed people to move out of the way as he felt Chana's pulse.

  "Do you have any medical conditions?" he asked her.

  "No," said Chana. "Nothing other than being pregnant. I think I am dehydrated."

  "Are you able to stand up?" he asked her. "If we can get you to my vehicle, I will drive you to the hospital."

  "I don't think I need go to the hospital," Chana replied as another wave of nausea hit her. She vomited again. Utterly embarrassed, she wondered how she could have anything left in her stomach.

  "I think you may need some fluids," the officer said, politely pretending not to be bothered by the stench of her vomit.

  "Let's have you sit here for a few moments and when you feel comfortable, we'll try to get you moved to my vehicle.”

  Chana nodded in compliance. She was afraid that if she spoke, she would vomit again.

  "Is there anyone I can call for you, your husband or another family member?"

  Chana spoke as quietly as she could. "My husband, Uri. My phone is in my purse. His phone number should be the first one listed in my contacts."

  The officer nodded and quickly located Chana's flip phone.

  Uri was fortunate that he was not on an operation or a drill when he received a phone call from a restricted number. He was alarmed, as he knew that most restricted numbers came from emergency workers or law enforcement.

  "Lieutenant Geller," he answered. His heart raced as he heard the sergeant on the end of the line tell him about Chana's condition. The Sergeant informed him that he would be taking her to the emergency department at the Shaare Tzedek Medical Center. Uri thanked the officer and told him that he would meet them there as soon as possible.

  By the time Chana was well enough to walk to the officer's vehicle, he had already moved her belongings and bags into the back seat. He also handed her a bag to use in case she needed to vomit again. Fortunately, she was able to hold it in until they arrived at the emergency department.

  Once they arrived, a hospital worker met them at their car with a wheelchair. The officer called ahead to inform them that they were on their way.

  Chana was quickly checked in, miserably dry heaving between health questions.

  She was admitted and started on an intravenous line of fluids and medication to stop her nausea. An ultrasound tech came into the room to checkup on the baby.

  Unable to find a heartbeat as quickly as her earlier ultrasound in the day, Chana panicked. But soon that tech located it and it sounded strong. The technician explained that because Chana was dehydrated, the baby might become less active and the heartbeat more difficult to locate.

  "Baby looks perfect," the technician reassured her as she wiped off Chana's stomach with a warm towel.

  As she left the room, she turned down the light so that Chana could rest.

  Hoping that Uri would arrive soon, Chana drifted into a light sleep.

  She was awakened by the feeling of someone gently stroking her cheek. She opened her eyes. Her body flooded with relief to see Uri sitting beside her.

  "Chana," he said tenderly. "What happened today? You are incredibly dehydrated. They want to keep you here for another bag of fluids before sending you home."

  "Amira died," Chana said matter-of-factly. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't. She didn't know if it was because of her dehydration or her not wanting to accept the awfulness of the day.

  "Today was her seventh birthday. She died on her birthday. Why would HaShem take a little girl on her birthday?"

  "Oh Chana, I am so sorry. I know how much she meant to you. And I know how much you meant to her."

  "I wanted to show her a picture of our ultrasound and I had a tiara to give her. All she wanted for her birthday was a tiara."

  Uri took her hand that wasn't attached to the IV and caressed it. Unbothered by her smell and the vomit encrusted in her hair, he looked at her lovingly.

  "Uri?"

  "Yes, my love?"

  "I know your job has secrets. You don't have to answer me or confirm anything with me, but I know that you have some contacts in the West Bank. I need you to do me a favor, and it needs to be done quickly."

  38

  “You want me to do what?" Lieutenant Bar Liev looked at Uri Geller as if he were crazy.

  Bar Liev was part of the "speaker" group that was embedded in the Dheisheh Refugee Camp, a Palestinian camp that existed outside of Bethlehem since the state of Israel was established.

  "I can't just show up to a housing complex and hand a Palestinian woman a tiara. It could blow years of my undercover work."

  "I'm not asking you to make any contact with the woman,” Uri explained. "I'm only asking that you leave it outside her door. I know you could do this going completel
y unnoticed."

  "And what's so important about this tiara?" Bar Liev asked. "Bum me a cigarette while you explain."

  Uri pulled out his pack of smokes and took two cigarettes from the package giving one to Bar Liev and keeping one for himself. After they lit up, they both inhaled a deep puff before Uri explained.

  "Look, it's for a seven-year-old girl who died yesterday. My wife was doing an internship at the hospital where the girl was being treated. She grew really close to the family, and she promised Amira—the girl who died—that she would bring her a tiara for her birthday."

  "But the girl's dead," Bar Liev repeated to make sure he understood.

  "Yes, she died yesterday, on her birthday."

  "You want me to bring a dead girl a birthday present?"

  "Yes, I know that it sounds weird, but my wife made a promise. And her knowing that the family gets the tiara would give her some closure. She'll never see the family again."

  Bar Liev sighed.

  "I'll do it, but only if you agree to buy me smokes for a month."

  "How about two weeks?" Uri tried to bargain.

  "A month or the deal's off."

  "Fine. A month," Uri conceded.

  "And you can give me the rest of the pack that you have now."

  "I thought you were trying to quit," Uri said as he begrudgingly handed it over his pack to Bar Liev, along with the brown paper bag holding the tiara and Amira's address.

  "Yeah, that's what my wife thinks. Why do you think I want you to buy them for me? She notices things in the bank account."

  Uri nodded and shook Bar Liev's hand.

  "Message me to let me know that it went okay, will you?"

  Bar Liev flipped Uri the bird as he walked away, which Uri took as a sign that he would do it.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, at an apartment building in the Dheisheh Refugee Camp, Noor Najjar's younger daughter opened her front door to find a brown paper bag. On the front the words "for Amira" were written in Arabic.

  "Umi," the little girl said. “Look!"

  "Give it to me," Noor said harshly. Exhausted by the ninth month of pregnancy and the grief of burying her oldest daughter, she had little patience.

  Noor opened the brown paper package. Inside she found a beautiful silver and pink tiara along with a framed photo of Amira and Chana.

  Noor sat on a chair, put her hand over her face and cried.

  "What is it, Umi?" the little girl asked curiously.

  "It is a present for Amira. I think we need to take a walk to her grave."

  Amira's funeral, according to Islamic custom, took place less than 24 hours ago. Her body was ritually washed by her mother and grandmother and she was wrapped in five layers of cotton cloth. She was placed in the ground with her head facing Mecca.

  Bone-weary, Noor took her daughter's hand and they walked down to the building's entrance. They walked another eight blocks to the area that had been used as a cemetery for over 60 years and walked a long distance to Amira's grave.

  Noor took the tiara from the brown tattered bag and held it before Amira’s grave.

  "From Chana," she said. “She remembered.”

  She began to cry again and used the bottom of her hijab to wipe her face. She looked down at her small child who was also crying.

  “I want Amira to come back, Umi,” the little girl said. Noor used her hijab again to wipe the child’s cheeks.

  “She is with Allah now,” Noor said. “But I think she would want you to have her tiara.”

  Noor managed a small smile and gently placed the tiara on the little girl’s head. “You’ll take care of it, won’t you?” Noor said. Her daughter smiled, teary-eyed, as she rearranged the tiara over her hair.

  On their walk home, Noor began to lose energy. She felt significant pressure in her pelvis, a feeling she knew well. As they entered the building and walked up a set of stairs, Noor summoned her little girl to get her grandmother.

  Three hours later, Noor gave birth to a healthy eight-pound baby boy. As she looked into the infant's eyes, she pondered the mystery of the soul. Twenty-four hours ago, she held the lifeless body of her precious Amira. She washed her hair, cleaned her nails, and hugged her a final time before she was buried beneath the earth.

  Now she held a brand-new life in her arms. He grimaced and smiled while he slept, his tiny chest raising with each breath. He shared the same tiny mark on his head—something nurses called an angel kiss—that Amira had when she was born. Noor couldn't help but wonder if her tiny son held a secret. Perhaps in the past 24 hours, he had crossed paths with Amira.

  AROUND THE TIME THAT Noor and her daughter journeyed to the cemetery, Uri received a text message that read simply: present delivered. He called Chana to tell her the news.

  Chana hung up the phone in deep relief. She laid down on her bed and looked at the picture added to her nightstand. It was the same one that Noor had in her home of Amira and Chana.

  Next to the photo were all of Amira's trinkets. They would stay there until Uri hung a shelf in their own daughter's room. Happy Birthday, sweet Amira, Chana thought to herself as she drifted off to sleep, feeling a new life moving within her.

  39

  On a sunny morning in early May 2001, Uri Geller walked into his third mandated psychologist appointment after he shot and killed Omar Basara.

  In his last two appointments, he held his emotions close to him, as he didn't want to give his unit the idea that he was showing any sign of weakness.

  As he walked into Dr. Cahn's office, he felt more vulnerable than usual. Perhaps it was Chana's recent health scare, or her palpable grief over the death of Amira, but Uri felt anxious.

  He sat on Dr. Cahn's couch and answered the usual questions:

  How was he sleeping?

  Had he been having any nightmares or unusual dreams?

  How was his family life?

  While he had always answered "good" or "excellent" to the last question, this time he hesitated before answering.

  "Lieutenant Geller?" Dr. Cahn asked him again. "How are things with your wife?"

  Uri took a deep breath, as if he were preparing to dive into a pool.

  "I never knew it was possible to love someone so much until I met Chana. The first time I looked at her, I knew there was something special about her. I was only a seventeen-year-old kid, and she was this crazy, outgoing secular girl who totally intimidated me."

  He stopped and looked at Dr. Cahn, partially expecting a response, but Dr. Cahn said nothing. Uri interpreted it as a sign that he should keep talking.

  "The fact that we even met who was next to impossible. And the fact that my family accepted her and that the Beit Din approved her conversion. . .these are difficult things to achieve. I know in my heart that Chana is who HaShem picked for me. I know she is my soulmate."

  Uri was silent again and began to tap his left foot.

  "You do that when you're nervous, don't you?" Dr. Cahn asked him.

  "Do what?"

  "What you are doing now, methodically tapping your left foot."

  Uri looked down at his foot and froze.

  "I guess I do it sometimes," he admitted. "Even Chana points it out sometimes."

  "So why are you nervous, Lieutenant?”

  Dr. Cahn's tone annoyed Uri for some reason—so much that it pushed him over the brink of honesty.

  "I'm nervous because a psycho suicide bomber might blow himself up in the street and Chana and our baby will be blown to pieces! Is that a good enough reason to be nervous?"

  Dr. Cahn didn't seem to be even slightly fazed by Uri's outburst.

  "And I'm nervous because. . ."

  He stopped talking and slumped back in his chair.

  "Why else are you nervous, Lieutenant?" Dr. Cahn finally asked in a tone that relayed no emotion.

  "I'm nervous because I killed a kid's dad. This twelve-year-old kid's dad who was a terrorist. The guy was a terrible man. He was responsible for the death of many Israelis. He was at the
top of the chain and he needed to go in order to dismantle a terror cell."

  "Go on," said Dr. Cahn.

  "I asked HaShem for redemption and I know he has forgiven me. But I still can't shake this feeling that I will be punished in some way. Not by HaShem, but at the hands of others."

  "Have you received threats?" the doctor asked.

  "No. Nothing like that. It's just that I can't stop thinking about the boy,” Uri sighed. “Intelligence reports that he's not a threat but there's just something that doesn't sit right with me about him. But there's nothing I can do; those investigations are above my rank."

  "Tell me more about the anxiety you have about your wife," Dr. Cahn said, prodding Uri along.

  "Chana has this thing about her. . .it's hard to describe. She can be incredibly goofy and silly and sarcastic but then she has this deep side. It's like she knows some secrets to the universe or something. She knew from the moment she got pregnant that our baby was a girl. She had no doubt. And sure enough—when we had our second ultrasound—it confirmed we were having a girl."

  "Well, to be fair she had a fifty percent chance," Dr. Cahn said as he wrote something on his notepad.

  "No doctor, she had no doubt. She didn't even bother to look at the ultrasound portion when it was time to find out the sex."

  Dr. Cahn nodded and gave a slight shrug.

  "I guess sometimes I think she is too good to be true. Like I'm living in this dream to even be with her. She brings me so much happiness. She is smart and funny and witty and so empathetic. She sees the best in people."

  He hesitated before saying, " I am so afraid of losing her."

  "It sounds as if you are married to Mother Teresa," Dr. Cahn replied with a slight smile.

  "Oh no, Chana is very forward when it comes to initiating se—" Uri realized he said too much and cleared his throat uncomfortably.