by Roger Herst
“I read both letters several times, trying to learn more about the human being my bullets had killed. Back in those streets he was just another object to be destroyed. But now I am truly humbled. If Jews and Arabs had found a way to live together, Nabil Abu Jabali and I might have been neighbors; we might have gone to the same school. We might have shared each other’s clothes or given each other gifts. I might have attended his wedding, and he, mine. Mind you, I don’t blame him for being my enemy, any more than he could have blamed me for being his. Men haven’t changed much in all the centuries. It is still the place of a man’s birth that determines which uniform he will wear, as it determines who will be killed and who will live to remember.
“Please believe me, I am no murderer. I have never wanted to kill and pray I shall never be called upon to do it again. When I shot Nabil he was my enemy. Now, when it is too late, he is to me a human being, with feelings and thoughts as beautiful as any of mine—or yours. And I regret, you will never know how much, the moment that my finger pressed the trigger. How I wish he and I had never met in that passageway and that you and he had been able to live happy lives together. I believe he was a good man and I know for certain he was a brave soldier. That makes me feel all the more ashamed of what necessity forced me to do.
“I wonder if you hate me as much as I hate the situation that made me into a killer. Some soldiers can kill with impunity, without the least bit of remorse—yes, even Israeli soldiers who are raised neither to kill nor murder (the distinction, I believe, is very delicate). But I cannot kill even an enemy soldier without regret. I am deeply sorry for it, as much for you as for him. Can you understand this? Or does everything I write seem nothing more than the excuse of a murderer from a treacherous and sinister nation? My remorse is greater because it was Nabil Abu Jabali, with a girlfriend he loved, that I killed. He probably deplored war as much as I do. And it is possible he might have regretted my death from his bullets as much as I regret his from mine.
“There is nothing more to be said about it, except it was a great tragedy neither of us will forget. Nabil was buried with his comrades in a communal grave outside the Old City. No doubt, if King Hussein can see his way to make some form of peace with Israel, the government of the Hashemite Kingdom will give him an honorable and proper burial. I have reason to believe that none of his fellow soldiers escaped and therefore none would be alive to relate his death to you. Yet you probably assumed the worst since he never wrote after the war.
“I pray you will not take his death too hard. If you can understand my feelings, please forgive this horrible thing. Enclosed are the two photos and the two letters. The money I donated to a charity for Jordanian children. I took nothing else from him.
“Please do not write any reply for already my heart is too heavy. Only send one word “Received” to inform me that you have gotten my letter. We say in Hebrew, ‘May God console you with the rest of the mourners.’
“Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem
“For Peace between Men,
“Solomo Ami-Chai.”
The congregation was silent, lost in the sadness of a tragedy more than forty years before, as Gabby slowly refolded the letter, dramatically tucked it into the original envelope, and stepped away from the pulpit. The guns of the Six Days War had long since fallen silent, but the sentiments they engendered had lingered long afterwards. There are thousands of stories in warfare. Few have happy endings and most are timeless. Mordecai could have written the letter Gabby had read, sending it to a stranger in a far-off land to explain how a tragedy had come to pass. Someone could be writing letter like it today, after a modern battle.
She returned to the pulpit in a brown army beret with the Israeli Defense Force insignia on its peak. In her new role, she took a second envelope and repeated the act of extracting a letter. In a different, throaty voice, she read the second missive.
“Mr. Solomo Ami-Chai
Do’ar Merkazi
P. O. Box 473 Jerusalem, Israel26 July, 1967
“Received
“Amelia Krulin”
A pervading silence lingered in the sanctuary as Gabby stepped back from the pulpit. She sat for a moment beside the ark of the Torah, then rose and descended to the well of the sanctuary.
After the story session, several adolescents wanted to talk to Gabby about what they had heard. They were perplexed by conflict between duty to the state and personal morality, and deeply worried about government legitimization of violence. Joel waited patiently to compliment her on the story, but was unsuccessful in stealing a few minutes alone with her.
He was no more successful after Purim. They traded phone calls for three days—until he caught her after hours, when the synagogue staff had left for the day and she answered her own phone.
“The weather is good enough to open KISS,” he reported. “My invitation to visit the Izaak Walton Range is still open. Why not come with me and enjoy Saturday afternoon in the country?”
She was slightly more intrigued than skeptical and agreed that he could pick her up at the synagogue after her Sabbath duties, a little past 2:00 p.m.
“Can you change into outdoor clothing?” he asked.
“Absolutely. My work clothes would hardly be appropriate.”
***
Kids’ Instructional Shooting and Safety Club
Joel collected Gabby at Ohav Shalom and steered his maroon Bronco northwest on River Road, through the posh suburb of Potomac, Maryland. Their conversation glided easily through several subjects until he confessed that the trouble with Mothers Against Guns was only part of his frustration concerning KISS.
“My board,” he said, keeping his eyes focused on the road, “is discouraged by the response from the community. There’s talk that KISS has not produced the anticipated good will. Some members are telling me in private that, as far as they’re concerned, the project's a failure. The NRA likes to pick its battles and this one doesn’t seem worth fighting.” He glanced at Gabby to see if she seemed interested and decided she was. “I had hoped we could expand my program in Seneca to other chapters around the country. As it stands, I’ll be lucky to continue here throughout the summer season.”
“That must be a great disappointment,” she said, her voice conveying sympathy.
“You bet. It would be easier if we were really failing, but the brute fact is we aren’t. You’ll see for yourself.”
As they approached the rifle range, they saw empty vehicles parked along the roadside. Their occupants, many carrying placards on eight-foot high poles, were walking toward the entrance. Joel slowed to give a wide berth to the foot traffic that had spilled onto the tarmac. Over a hundred people, white and black, were already assembled around the twelve-foot masonry column that marked the entrance to the range.
NO GUNS FOR CHILDREN one placard said. KIDS DON’T NEED KILLING LESSONS read another.
Gabby recognized the angry faces of several Coalition members. Just the people she had hoped not to encounter. “Are you planning to drive through?” she asked Joel, slipping down a bit in the passenger seat and turning her face from the view of those on the road.
“It’s not a picket line, is it? We didn’t invite these folks here, you know. A busload of kids from the District should arrive in about a half hour.”
From beyond the closed windows, the shouting voices coalesced into a single chant that challenged Joel’s cautious progress forward. Bolder demonstrators stood dead center in the roadway, holding their positions until the Bronco's fender nearly touched them. Nine stalwarts planted themselves on the gravel entry road, flanked by a majestic stand of dogwood and black willow that lead from the highway to the gun range. A single, short hoot on the vehicle’s horn failed to move them aside. Joel gave Gabby a menacing scowl and mumbled, “What’s the point? They didn’t come all the way from the city to be persuaded to go home.”
“You can’t drive through them.” Gabby said, shrinking down further down into the passenger seat. She was gra
teful for the tinted glass that largely concealed her from those outside.
“I could if I wanted to,” he said impatiently, “but I’ve got a better idea.”
He shifted into the parking gear and pulled the emergency brake to insure the vehicle could not roll forward and injure the demonstrators ahead. Then, he opened the driver’s door and dropped quickly down to the road, closing it behind him to shield Gabby. “May I ask who’s in charge here?” he thundered at those closest to him.
“Karen Pillsbury,” someone answered. “Jointly with Stephanie Roberts, who’s with MAG.”
“Can you bring them here? I’m Joel Fox, sponsor of the Kids’ Instructive Shooting and Safety Club.”
“We’re going to stop you from teaching children how to kill,” a voice from the second tier heckled.
“No need for that. I don’t teach kids how to kill. I teach them how not to kill and how not to be killed. Now where’s Ms. Pillsbury or Ms. Roberts?”
The discussion had attracted additional protestors ready to do battle. From across the road, a robust black woman in shorts elbowed through the crowd, forcing those in her path to produce a sizable lane. Joel stepped into the new space to greet her as she barked in annoyance, “I’m Stephanie Roberts.”
“Good,” said Joel, producing an engaging smile. “Then, Ms Roberts, I’d like to make you and all your friends a proposition. You’re welcome to stand here on the road and make your case to the public. That’s your right, though I doubt there will be many cars passing this way and you’ll likely be talking to yourselves. One thing you can’t do, though, is to block the entrance to private property. That’s against the law and we’ll do what we must to maintain open access. On the other hand, if you and your friends would like to come onto the grounds and observe our educational program, you’re most welcome. We’ll be cordial hosts if you’ll be respectful guests. However, if you enter the property to disrupt our activities, then you’re trespassing and we’ll take legal action against you. I urge you to come as guests. Please look and observe. Ask any questions you wish. Of course, we have strict safety rules around the firing range. This isn’t an amusement park and no one knows better than we do how dangerous firearms can be. So for your safety you’ll have to follow our rules. We never, never compromise safety regulations. Not for you, not for the kids who will be joining us shortly, and not for the president of the United States.”
“This place has the stench of a Nazi death camp,” shouted someone beside Stephanie Roberts. “There’s no way we’re going to participate in your crimes.”
“Then remain here, but don’t try to stop our people. If you’d give us a chance, you wouldn’t look at us as the enemy.”
“We’re not going in,” Roberts replied. “And we don’t care how many cars come by. We’ll make our statement to the press right here.”
“Have it your way. If you change your mind, please stay on the gravel entry road. You cannot wander into the trees. We use live ammunition on the range. If people wander off into the wrong places accidents can happen.”
Joel wove back through demonstrators, projecting the menace of a gladiator. The moment he was back inside the Bronco, protestors closed in, threatening to block the roadway. Several roars of the engine in neutral encouraged them to inch away. “Well,” he said, turning his attention to Gabby who was still slouched down in her seat. “Want to get out and join the demonstration? I know that’s your inclination.”
“It is, but I promised you that I’d look before I came out swinging. By the way, I put down the window. What I could hear sounded quite reasonable.”
“I guess I’m preaching to the choir here, but it seems to me God didn’t make us the most cooperative of creatures.”
She tried to laugh at the notion, though it didn’t seem very funny to her. “You can say that again. My sisters out there aren't in the mood for cooperation. I was pulling for you to come to an acceptable resolution. Sorry they didn't accept your offer.”
“There you go,” said Joel, his eyes glued to the steep roadway that flanked a deep creek bed. “Like I just said, Rabbi. We’re confused mammals.”
The clubhouse was a rambling, single-story log cabin-like structure that had been expanded three times. It couldn’t be called elegant; the gun enthusiasts apparently loved guns more than aesthetic amenities. As Joel led Gabby up the four stairs to the front porch, she noticed at least twenty rifles of various sizes and calibers, their breaches opened for safety but unlocked or guarded, resting in gun racks along the outer wall of the cabin.
Inside, cedar rafters vaulted over the main clubroom and a showcase for silver-plated trophies covered an entire wall. Photographs of members holding rifles and side arms adorned the opposite wall. Half a dozen men in jeans and colorful flannel shirts, and two women turned to greet Gabby and Joel. Their eyes burned with curiosity since Joel had never brought a female companion to the club.
“We’re not going to let that rabble in here,” a short, husky woman declared to Joel. “We’ve put in a call demanding that the police stop them on the road. If they fail and the protesters come here, they’re in for a big surprise. When they see we mean business, they’ll be more respectful of private property.”
“Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that,” Joel replied. “Don’t confuse angry people with evil ones. You should all know that I’ve invited them to see what we’re doing. But only as guests. If they accept my invitation, we must be cordial. I’m sure we can rustle up extra refreshments, can’t we, Louise?” he asked the other woman, a middle-aged, matron in charge of refreshments for the kids. To the men assigned to lead the safety instruction he said,” The bus should be here in about fifteen minutes.”
He glanced across at Louise. “Are the refreshments ready?”
“Absolutely. The only thing missing is beer,” she said with a good-natured smile.
“That’s all I need,” he snapped, rejecting the humor. “Those mothers out on the highway would love to fricassee me for serving alcohol to minors.”
A stop en route from the District delayed the youngsters’ chartered bus by twelve minutes. The county police, who’d arrived to separate the demonstrators from road traffic, interceded when a phalanx of bodies blocked the club entrance. Thanks to their intervention, thirty-seven somewhat bewildered boys and girls, between the ages of fifteen and twenty, scampered off the bus, tired from the long journey but dazzled by the sight of the rifles resting in the clubhouse gun racks. It was a scene they recognized from Hollywood westerns. A moment later, Louise’s welcoming party handed out Cokes and cookies.
The kids seated themselves on picnic benches arranged in a semi-circle. Gabby took a seat between Kendra Neils, a black girl with blond-tinted hair and large hooped earrings, and a busty Hispanic girl, with far too much makeup, who reminded her of the girls she had counseled in the city’s high schools. Joel had begun his talk by displaying a long-barreled musket captured when the Confederate garrison at Vicksburg surrendered to federal forces. Kendra’s eyes were trained on Joel. “Cool,” she muttered.
Joel manipulated the firing hammer and explained its sparking mechanism. “This weapon has a long history,” he said. “It was manufactured in the federal arsenal at Harpers Ferry but was seized early in 1862 by Confederate forces from Virginia. Then it was lost in a skirmish in Eastern Tennessee but subsequently used by a Union corporal at Antietam Creek, not far from here. And guess what? It was re-taken by Rebels and brought to Vicksburg on the Mississippi River, where it was lost again to the guys in blue. So you see, it’s seen a lot of action – on both sides. And it still shoots just as straight today as it did over a hundred years ago.”
Kendra acknowledged Gabby by saying to her, “That’s neat. I’d like to fire that sucker.”
She asked, “Think you could hit something with it?”
“Don’t know. Never shot a gun likes that before.”
“Ever seen a civil war rifle?”
“No, but I seen pistols in the neigh
borhood. Lots of kids got ‘em. But nobody will let me shoot. So I gotta wait ‘till I can afford one.”
“Is it hard to get a gun?”
“Easy, if you’ve got the money. They’re for sale. A Saturday night special costs more.”
“What’s a Saturday night special?” she asked, embarrassed by her ignorance.
“Everybody knows about the specials.”
“Not me, I’m afraid.”
Kendra narrowed her eyes skeptically, but decided to share what she knew. “The dealer gives you the gun for about twenty bucks on Thursday or Friday. But you gotta bring him two, maybe three hundred more on Monday. That’s why they call it a special. It’s special deal for Saturday night.”
“What happens if you don’t bring him the rest of the money?”
“Big trouble. You could get yourself killed. My brother says, better not to get a special at all. Either the police will get you, or the dealer. I’m too smart to get me a special. So I come here to shoot and it don’t cost me nothing.”
Gabby signaled her approval with a smile. “Sounds smart to me. How do you know they’ll let you shoot here?”
“They always do. First you gotta learn about safety. Then they take you out to the range and let you fire .22s. I heard one guy got to fire that musket from the civil war. Pretty cool. “
After Joel’s show-and-tell, Gabby observed as the kids, in groups of ten, learned gun safety. As soon as training began, the atmosphere went from informal to a stern, militarily regimentation; the instructors were prepared to indulge the youngsters until it came to matters of safety. Members of the Kids’ Shooting and Safety Club were obliged to follow well-established safety procedures to the letter. Anybody who veered from them would be sent home and prohibited from returning on another day. Joel, she concluded, was dead serious about teaching youngsters the basics.
