Hope Valley

by Haviva Ner-David

  I could not move. I stayed in my room all day. I was paralyzed with guilt, anger, and shame. How could I have been so naive? I was the cause of six of my comrades’ deaths. There had already been plans in place to invade the village early the next morning. My comrades had been planning to join in as reinforcements. When the news got out about what had happened, the invading soldiers, some of them from among the surviving six who had witnessed the murders, were out for revenge. They lost control. They did not need to do what they did. The village had already surrendered. The villagers had no chance with those airplanes dropping bombs from the sky. That came as a total surprise, even to us on the kibbutz. I heard the explosions all the way from my room on the kibbutz. What they did was inexcusable. And if I had not told Jamal about my comrades training in the hills, it would not have happened as it did.

  It is hard for me to write these words now, but I must. That was the reason for this confession. This story has been weighing down my heart for all of these years. I tried to hold on to hope like Jamal had asked me to, even if I was so angry at him and at myself that I wanted to crucify our love right then and there. If we had even had a real love at all. Then, when the details of what happened that day came out—my hope began to fade like a magnificent rainbow slowly disappearing into a gray mist. Many facts about that war, its preceding events and its aftermath, were never publicized, never clarified. War is ugly. And the Nazis did far uglier things than the Haganah or the Lechi or the Etzel did. Far uglier than the ALA did. But this was Jamal’s village and my kibbutz. And our connection had intensified the suffering and conflict, not alleviated it.

  Gathering all of the men into the mosque and shooting random men between the ages of eighteen and thirty—was that something the Jews had learned from the Nazis, from being on the other side of the gun? And those dogs! Like the Nazis, no less. How could they? I know they were enraged. But were they taking out revenge on only the Arabs, or were they shooting a Nazi soldier too with each young man they murdered that day in the mosque? Killing every man who could have perpetrated the crime of hours before, without a trial, and in a House of God, no less? That was beyond sacrilegious. That was killing the human spirit.

  The smoke cleared, the bodies were buried, and the village was emptied and razed to the ground. Even if the villagers would be let back one day, they had nothing to come back to. The houses had been decimated, the agricultural land had been confiscated from the use of the villagers for “security reasons.” Some kibbutznik comrades who were not so committed to living in a classic commune started talking about building an agricultural cooperative community on the land. A moshav. The village had some good farm land, old olive groves with solid trees, too. They would pitch tents and start working the land, they decided. And so they did. They built the moshav you live on today: Moshav Sapir.

  When I heard nothing from Jamal, I almost hoped he had been one of the young men who were shot that day. That was actually in some ways more comforting of an option than the alternative I was playing out in my head: that he had been feigning interest in me all along, that he had been spying for the ALA to get information about the kibbutz. That, and my virginity. And once he got both, he had no more use for me. I was so confused, I did not know what to think. Once again, I would never know the truth. I would not know for certain if I was Jew or Catholic, used or loved.

  Weeks passed. I still heard nothing from Jamal. I did not know if he was dead or alive. In Palestine or over the border. I knew nothing.

  And then the blood didn’t come. It was always on time. To the minute almost. But one week passed, then two. At first, I assumed it was the pressure, the excitement, the worry. But when I was almost a month past my date and the nausea started, I understood what I had to do. I went to the nuns. They could help me. They would take me in. I was one of them, after all.

  I walked to the compound, like I had scores of times before. The valley was silent. The fighting was over. The villagers were gone. I was walking through death valley, not Hope Valley. I entered the convent compound, but this time, I did not walk to the church. I walked right up to the convent itself, stood facing the wooden front door. I lifted the iron knocker, knocked three times, and waited. No answer. I knocked again. A peep hole on the door opened and a pair of big round blue eyes looked through from inside the building. The door opened partially.

  “Can I help you?” asked a woman in a novice’s habit. She looked no older than I was, and she had a pure and innocent beauty on her angelic face.

  “I hope so,” I answered. I no longer had my rosary. Instead, I brought my old uniform from the Sisters of the Cross. I held it up to the peep hole for the nun to see. Proof that I was one of them. “Can I come inside?”

  The door opened fully, and the woman looked me up and down. I was dressed in my kibbutz work clothing. Khaki chino shorts, a button-down collared jersey. “I have seen you coming to sit in the chapel. What are you seeking here?” she asked.

  “I would like to see the mother superior,” I said. I showed the nun the uniform again. Then she crossed herself, bowed her head, and waited. “It has been too long since I’ve been behind the walls of Jesus Christ’s faithful.”

  “I see,” the nun said, and she hurried off down the hall. When she returned, she told me to follow her to the mother superior’s office. The last time I had been in such a place, I had been banished from its midst. But I had no choice but to continue forward and take my chances.

  I entered the room, and the younger nun left, closing the door behind her. The woman sitting behind the desk was much older than the woman who had opened the door, of course. She was a large woman, with broad shoulders and big brown eyes. “I hear you have come for help,” she said. Her voice was deep and strong. She had the solid presence of Mother Superior from the convent back in Belgium, but without the graceful and compassionate demeanor.

  “You are from the kibbutz, I gather.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “So what brings you here?”

  “I came to Palestine over a year ago, from a DP camp in Italy,” I began. “I lived out the war in a convent. A different order, Sisters of the Cross. In Belgium.” I held the uniform out for the mother superior to see. “But I imagine it was not so different from yours.”

  “You are Jewish? A hidden child?”

  “You could say that, but I always understood I was just like the other girls. I was not hidden in the basement with the Jewish children. My father and the nuns told me my mother was Catholic and that I was baptized.”

  “And was she? Were you?”

  “I don’t know. After the war, Mother Superior at the convent there told me it was all a lie, a front to protect me. And she sent me away. I wanted to become a nun. But she made me leave. I was devastated, bitter. But now I want to come back home, to Jesus.”

  “Why now? Why us?” I looked down into my lap. “Look at me, child.”

  “I have been coming to pray in the chapel. I felt the cross calling me.”

  “Yes, we saw you. Observed you. With that man. From the village. He is a Muslim?”

  “Yes. But his mother was raised Christian. In Nazareth. He believes in all of the prophets. Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad.”

  “I see. But you have not been here for a while. Nor has he. Not since the village was destroyed. Where is he now? Do you know?”

  I shook my head.

  “There is nothing left there, not for him. You have not heard from him?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “You don’t know if he’s alive? Across the border? In Nazareth?”

  I looked up at this woman who seemed to know me, somehow, although we had just met. I shook my head again.

  “Do you love this man?”

  My head was so shocked by this woman’s question that all I could do was answer. From the heart. “Yes, I do,” I said. I did not know for sure he had betrayed me. All I had to hold on to was the hope that he hadn’t. Or that if he had, he had had no choice.
r />   “And does he love you?”

  “I thought he did, but what does it matter now?”

  “Why have you come to us now?” She leaned over and whispered, “Are you with his child?”

  I nodded again. But this time, I looked the mother superior straight in the eye.

  “You have been with this man in the carnal way. And do you regret it? Are you willing to confess your sin?”

  This time, I shook my head. I was ashamed, but I could not say I regretted having given Jamal my virginity. If he was no longer alive, at least he had that. Even if he had been a spy . . . The Arabs were just as desperate as we were. Jews, too, were doing what they could to get what they wanted.

  “If he comes back, will you go to him?”

  “Yes, I would. If he would have me.” If Jamal had not been using me to get information for his brothers, if he had been forced to talk, then he would still want me. And I would still want him.

  “So you are no nun, child. You know that. Go back to your kibbutz. There are plenty of men there. You will find someone to raise your baby. I hear it is a commune there, with free love. Men and women sleeping in the same rooms. A nursery for the children. No one will know the difference. Now go.”

  Filled with shame and anger, I stood and left the room without looking back at the old nun. The younger one had been waiting outside the office door. I wondered how much of the conversation she had heard. But what did it matter? I knew I would never return. Not to this convent, not to any convent.

  Jesus would not have turned me away. I would go back to the kibbutz and follow this mother superior’s advice. Or forget her rules and put an end to this all together, before so much time passed that what was growing inside me became too real. Who was the Church to decide what was and was not a mortal sin? Not everything was black and white. There was also gray. So much gray. I had learned that the hard way.

  And now, Hope, it is time to tell you the end of the story.

  It was a few weeks later and a quiet time to be driving an ambulance. That’s probably why they let me do it, finally. A truce had been on since mid-July, right after the Haganah took Yakut al-Jalil. There had been those “police operations,” around Haifa. But since then, quiet. Thanks to Count Bernadotte and his Peace Plan. Jamal would have been happy, I knew. At least the Jamal I thought I knew. I prayed this would be the end of the fighting. And if Jamal was not dead, if he had been one of the young men in the village to survive and had made it across the border into Lebanon, he could even come back. With peace on the horizon, I told myself. There was still hope. I could still have his child, and we could be together. All three of us.

  I was not in any condition to be driving an ambulance into a battlefield, so I was lucky there was a truce. They sent me to Jerusalem, the only place there might be action if there was any at all. I had not told anyone about the pregnancy. I was still trying to figure out what to do. I would wake in the mornings and go back to sleep at night feeling as if I needed to vomit, but no release would come. The nausea never left, no matter what I did. My head hurt, my breasts were tender, and all I really wanted to do was sleep. Yet, they had finally given me the keys to an ambulance. And I was happy to get off of the kibbutz and away from Hope Valley and everything that reminded me of Jamal, his village, and what I had done. What he had done. What we had done. Besides, I would be riding with David, who was still a medic. I missed him, my only true friend. Maybe he could help me. Or at least be a sympathetic ear. So I went.

  So here is my final confession. David and I were sitting in the ambulance, drinking tea, and waiting for our next run. Truce or no truce, there was always need for an ambulance. David was reading to me in French from the one copy of Rene Barjavels’ Le Diable l’emporte that we had between us. It had come out only recently, and we were excited to have it. Another book of Barjavels’ about civilization’s fall.

  Suddenly, a call came in over the radio:

  “Emergency in the Katamon quarter! There’s been a shooting. Count Bernadotte and Colonel Serot have been shot! Medics needed immediately!”

  I was already at the driver’s seat when the call came in. I put the key in the ignition, turned on the motor and siren, and put my foot to the pedal. Count Bernadotte. Who would do such a thing?

  “It’s the Stern Gang for sure,” David yelled above the roar of the siren, as if he had heard my thoughts. We could do that, David and I; speak to each other without opening our mouths. Under other circumstances, David would have been my lover, not Jamal. But circumstances were as they were.

  We neared King George Street. “Why would they do this?” I called back to David, who was in the rear of the ambulance, checking the equipment.

  “Jerusalem. They won’t give in on Jerusalem.”

  My stomach turned. Shooting an innocent man, a peacemaker, over the Holy City. The height of irony! The Stern Gang. How dare they claim this land belongs only to the Jews! Would God really have promised this land to only one of His children? I felt the bile rising in my throat, but I held it back. I could not stop now. Time was of the essence.

  As we reached the German Colony, a more sedate voice came over the radio: “Count Bernadotte is dead. No need for more medics on site. Shalom.”

  I slowed down and pulled over. I got out of the ambulance and puked on the side of the road.

  David came over to me with a wet towel and a canteen of water. “Shalom. That’s a laugh.” He sneered.

  I put my head down on the steering wheel and let myself cry. This was too much. Any hopes for peace were shot down with Bernadotte. His plan called for the return of the refugees and a peaceful solution in Palestine, so Arabs and Jews could live together in peace. Jamal would never come back now, and I feared Arabs and Jews would fight until the bitter end.

  “Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears,” I cried.

  Yes, that was more like it. Tear Valley, not Hope Valley. Like the well in the village across the valley from Yakut al-Jalil that the Haganah had not destroyed. Bir al-Demue. Well of Tears. Hopes destroyed. Tears flowing.

  What would become of this child I was carrying? The fruit of two warring nations. I could not stay here with this child. I had to find a way to get out of this place. Or end this pregnancy. David came over and put his arms around my shoulders. I lifted my head from my hands and saw that he was crying, too. “It’s a lost cause, now,” he said. “Living together in peace.” He put me at arm’s length and looked me in the eye. “I just heard back from New York University Medical College. I was accepted, with a full scholarship. I’ll be leaving as soon as I can get the papers and a ticket on the next boat out of here.”

  “New York? The studies will be in English.”

  “My grandmother was British. She spoke to me in English. I was practicing with a British soldier, in exchange for French lessons, before he left. And my previous ambulance driver was from Brooklyn. I insisted we speak in English. I’ll manage.”

  While I had been having my affair with Jamal, David had been planning his escape. How I wished I could get on that boat with him. Not only for my child’s sake, but for my own sake, too. What would I do now? No Jamal. No David. No nuns. Peace was now an impossibility. This child had no future here. Like in Barjavels’ book, if only I, Jamal and our child could go underground and let this land crumble to pieces above us. But his village was already rubble, and I had no desire to stick around to see what would happen to the rest of this God-forsaken place. I wanted out.

  The tears came faster now. “You can’t leave me here alone,” I bawled.

  “You can come, too,” he said. “You don’t have to stay here.”

  “How could I come? I have no ties in America. And no medical school waiting for me, either. I could never get papers.”

  I could not get out of Palestine, or Israel, or whatever this place would be called. But
I also could not let the child I was carrying be born in a valley of tears. David was my only hope. It would mean going against his nature, but he would manage, I told myself.

  David put his hands on my wet cheeks and lifted my head so we were face to face. He pushed back my matted hair. “I wish I could help you,” he said.

  But he could. He did. He did just what needed to be done.

  TIKVAH

  TIKVAH LOOKED UP from the pages. Her mother was Marie. So much of what she had thought about her parents’ history was not as she had been told. Their life had always been a puzzle, but the pieces that had at least lay contained—even if unassembled—in the box had now been thrown in the air and scattered all around her. She waited for Alon to stop reading. He had been reading along with her, as she handed him page after page, although she still held the final page in her hand.

  “So, it seems my parents lived in Palestine before and during 1948. Both of them. On Kibbutz Zohar, of all places. I had no idea my parents’ secrets were this close to home,” she said.

  “It’s hard to believe they never let it slip.” He was shaking his head, rubbing his stubbly cheek. “Your parents went through a lot. So why were they so against you coming here if they had lived here, too?”

  “That’s the least of it.” Tikvah grimaced. “Jamal is my friend Ruby’s father.”

  Alon’s eyes opened wide. “No.”

  “Yes. Crazy but true.” Tikvah let out a deep sigh. “And now I know the biggest secret they had been keeping from me for my whole childhood. My father was not my mother’s first love. She was in love with Jamal who very possibly betrayed her by passing on information to his ALA brothers. That led to the death of a handful of kibbutznikim that enraged the Haganah soldiers enough to make them want to return an eye for an eye when they went into Jamal’s village, Yakut al-Jalil, the village that stood where our moshav now stands.”

  Alon closed his eyes. She knew he knew more than he was letting on. But she continued. “And as if that is not enough, my father performed the abortion that put an end to my mother’s love child. I knew none of this. It’s a lot to take in. She had wanted to become a nun, for heaven’s sake!”