Convergence at Two Harbors

by Dennis Herschbach

  Convergence at Two Harbors

  Dennis Herschbach

  Copyright © 2012 Dennis Herschbach

  Cover photo by Diane Hilden

  ISBN 978-0-87839-590-3 (Print)

  ISBN 978-0-87839-864-5 (E-Book)

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition, June 2012

  Electronic Edition, June 2012

  Published by

  North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

  P.O. Box 451

  St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

  Visit us at www.northstarpress.com

  Like us on Facebook!

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the members of the St. Croix Writers group who not only encouraged my writing, but also supported me when I needed support the most.

  Preface

  Although we are not slaves to our past, I’m sure we would all agree that we are deeply affected by the joys and the traumas that occur along our life’s journey. In the three principle characters of Convergence at Two Harbors I see this tenet in action.

  Even as an author, I was influenced by past experiences. During my tenure as a high school teacher, I encountered many students who faced difficult times, much as did Deidre, the student who in the book becomes the first woman sheriff of her county.

  I had the privilege of visiting Honduras on mission trips, and it was there that I first learned of the Palestinian immigrants to that country. I met several Americans who were concerned with immigration issues and illegal workers.

  In the early 2000s I took a class at a Lutheran seminary taught by a professor who had lived with Palestinian Lutherans for a year, and there I first heard of checkpoints that are randomly set up, so called flying checkpoints, and the delays that can result.

  Further research revealed that, according to the World Health Organization, sixty-nine women were forced to give birth at checkpoints from 2000 to 2006. Of these, thirty-five of the newborns died and five mothers perished while they were detained. There are no records of how many surviving mothers developed septicemia because of the unsanitary conditions surrounding their deliveries. There are no records of the aftermath of these traumas experienced by the Palestinians.

  Convergence at Two Harbors is a purely fictional account. Names were made up from a list of names of Palestinian prisoners held by the Israelis, selecting a first name at random and pairing it with a randomly chosen last name from someone else on the list. Names of the Americans were put together by the author, and have no connection in the least with actual people.

  Dunnigan’s is a pub in Two Harbors and is a delightful place to visit, to have a sandwich, and to even order a beer if you’d like. From there, it is a short walk to where Crusader sits high and dry on her blocks.

  Brimson is a real community in the north woods. Its residents are independent-minded people who are good neighbors but who do not interfere in each others lives. Today, several of the old homesteads have been sold or abandoned, and many have been converted to hunting camps.

  If you are so inclined, you can probably use the places described in this book to follow the fictionalized events. A visit to the North Shore of Lake Superior will be its own reward.

  Chapter One

  From inside a rundown hunting shack, four men spotted a black SUV slowly winding its way up the quarter-mile-long dirt driveway. They had their hands on their guns until they saw a tall, athletic man get out of the vehicle. They rushed out to meet him.

  “Ah, Zaim. It’s good to see you again, my friend,” Jibril greeted him. They hugged, brushed cheeks, first on one side, then the other. They took turns until the greeting had been repeated by all. Only then did the five enter the shack.

  Inside, it took a minute for Zaim’s eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room, but as they did, he could see that his orders had been carried out. Well away from the propane-fueled cookstove, a dozen backpacks were piled against the wall. In the other room, which served both as a living room and as a bunk room, he noted with approval six fully automatic assault rifles lined up between the two rows of stacked bunk beds, and on the floor, three dozen loaded clips of ammunition.

  “I see you have been busy,” Zaim praised the four men. “Soon, we will begin to strike fear in these smug northern dogs.”

  Then he turned to his companions and laughed. “You looked nervous when you came out of the shack to greet me, Imad. You still had your hand on your pistol.”

  “We can’t be too cautious out here, Zaim. What if you had been one of the sheriff’s deputies come to check on this place?” Imad said, trying to excuse his obvious fear.

  Zaim laughed a snort of contempt. “These backwoods oafs, they wouldn’t know a threat if it was a rat running under their noses.” He spit in contempt. “Soon they’ll pay for their ignorance.”

  Not too convincingly, Imad smiled a broken smile, and Zaim put his arm around his shoulders.

  “Don’t worry my friend. By the time they know we have been here, we’ll be gone,” he said reassuringly to his jumpy companion. “Come, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  The five men sat down to a meal of taboon bread, rice, and chicken. From a pan, they each spooned a healthy serving of shakshoukeh, and they talked while they stuffed their mouths with food.

  “This is why we picked you, Murad.” Zaim said with a grin. “You think it is because you can shoot straight, but really, it’s for your cooking.” Murad slapped him on the back and ladled another spoonful of the cooked tomatoes and peppers onto Zaim’s plate.

  “I can do both,” Murad answered. “You should have seen the stares I got yesterday when I bought groceries in Two Harbors. They looked at me like I was going to bring down the store.” Murad laughed until he almost doubled over. “I asked for lamb and the butcher looked at me like I had asked for yak. There’s nothing good about this country, not even their food.”

  Zaim got up from the table and fumbled through his pack. He came back with a bottle.

  “I’ve got a treat for you boys,” he said with a look on his face that belied his joy. “Afu, bring some glasses and a pitcher of water. Jibril, get some ice from the freezer.”

  Afu and Jibril jumped at the command, and in seconds Zaim poured from the bottle he had secreted into the shack. He half filled each of the five glasses and then added water. Immediately the mixture turned a milky white. Then he added ice and invited each man to take one.

  “Arak, lion’s milk,” and Zaim took a sip of the potent alcoholic drink. “Lion’s milk for warriors,” and he downed the rest in three gulps.

  After their evening meal, the five men needed to stretch their legs and escape the confines of the tiny shack that would have been crowded if only one person were staying in it. They walked around to the back of the building and wandered up a dirt trail that had once been a logging road. Soon they were slapping at mosquitoes.

  “How can anybody live up here,” Jibril grumbled. “Bugs and trees, that’s all they have. The only ones who will live here are those fair skinned Finns,” he continued his rant. “They are so sour, even the bugs don’t bite them. I saw two of them picking berries yesterday, and they weren’t even swatting the bugs away. I think they cannot feel the bite.” Then he went on, “I wonder if it will sour the lake when their blood runs off the docks?” and he laughed at his own joke.

  When the five of them returned to their shelter, they relaxed in chairs in the screened porch, and the talk turned to their mission.

  “By this time next month
we’ll be on our way home,” Zaim reminded them. “By then they will know we have been here, including the sheriff and her slow-witted deputies. But first we have a matter to eliminate in Two Harbors.” The others nodded knowingly.

  After his four companions retired to the shack, Zaim sat alone in the screen porch. The stillness of the night was stifling. Only the buzzing of some unidentifiable insect and the occasional hoot of an owl in the distance broke the silence to which he was unaccustomed.

  The shack was all that was left of a hundred-year-old homestead in northeastern Minnesota. During a previous visit, Zaim had chosen this location because of its remoteness. With help from a group in the twin cities of Minneapolis-St. Paul who were sympathetic to their cause and through the complicity of a phantom buyer, he had acquired access to it. Located in the middle of a very rural community, Brimson, it was over twenty miles north of Two Harbors. Zaim thought it an ideal place to hide.

  By ten thirty he decided he’d better try to get some sleep and ground out the glow of his cigarette before going inside. He climbed onto his bunk and lay in the dark. He ran his fingers over the painful lump on his left forearm. Zaim was wide awake, too tense to doze off, and his thoughts returned to the day he got off the plane at the Gaza International Airport in Gaza City, Palestine.

  That was a hundred years ago, or so it seemed. It was January of 2000, eleven years ago. Then, he was only three days short of his twenty-third birthday, and it was a few months after he had started to make plans to visit Palestine.

  Zaim’s ancestral family had immigrated to Honduras during the time of the fall of the Ottoman Empire. He was a third generation of Palestinian descent, born and raised in Honduras. He had no real political view on what had happened in Palestine during the collapse, or even what was happening in 2000 for that matter. He had come to Gaza as a tourist seeking some of the pieces to complete the puzzle of his heritage.

  When Zaim and his young wife, Dania, had begun to plan their trip, they poured over maps and travel brochures of the Palestinian region. With the help of Zaim’s mother, they made contact with a couple of distant relatives still residing in Gaza, and Dania had started to prepare a list of what they would need to take on their adventure. Everything was falling into place like well thought out squares of an intricate quilt.

  However, one day Dania made a startling request.

  “Zaim, do you think there is room for three of us to make the trip?”

  Zaim rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Have you been talking to Mama? I thought this was going to be a special trip for the two of us, time to be together and enjoy an adventure.”

  Dania laughed. “No. I mean the three of us.”

  Zaim still didn’t grasp the implication. Finally, Dania had to spell it out. “I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a father.” She threw her arms around her husband.

  They laughed and hugged, held each other and talked far into the night. Then reality hit Zaim. “What about our trip? Do we cancel our plans? What do we do now?”

  Again, Dania laughed. “Don’t be silly,” she pretended to scold. “I’ll be six-and-a-half months along when we leave and only into my seventh month when we return. I’ll be fine.”

  They continued to plan, only this time with the knowledge that their child, a son, would be traveling with them as stowaway baggage. The days sped by faster than either of them anticipated, and almost before they were prepared, they were on an intercontinental flight to Palestine.

  Zaim and Dania were met at the airport by an older man, Tareq, who lived with his wife in the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem. Zaim’s mother had made arrangement for the older couple to provide a place for her children to stay while they were in Palestine and had asked them to help the young people avoid the pitfalls of visiting a sometimes hostile territory.

  That night, as they had shared a meal together, Tareq inquired of Zaim, “So, my son, why is it that you have developed this interest in finding your roots?”

  His mouth full of musakhan, Zaim had to take time to swallow before answering. “Ever since I was a young boy, people tell me stories about our family living in Palestine. I don’t remember Great-grandfather Hamza. He died years before I was born, but Grandfather Ahmed told me stories about him and of how he came to Honduras.” Zaim paused to take another bite. “Momma has kept those stories alive in my mind ever since. I suppose I need some images to fill in the blank spots of my family’s storybook.”

  “I can tell you some about Hamza but only what was told to me by my parents,” Tareq said, looking up from his meal. “Your great-grandfather lived in the town of Al-Zahra. He owned rich farmland and grew olives and dates to sell to the merchants in the marketplace. They were close friends, and they visited together every day, even worshipped together on the holy days.

  “In those days, when the Ottoman emperor was on his throne, it seemed like everyone could get along.” Then he added with a shrug, “Christians, Jews, Moslems: all shared the land in those days.”

  “In 1910 or twelve, Jews began to flood to the area, many of them sponsored by wealthy Zionists from America. They pretty much moved into the marketplaces and took the jobs of your great-grandfather’s friends. The Moslems became nervous because of the imbalance, and at the same time, the empire began to exert its control. Eventually, the Empire cracked, and in response, the Palestinian Christians became the scapegoats. That is when your great-grandfather Hamza and his friends decided to leave their homes and go to Honduras.”

  Tareq looked Zaim square in the eyes. “You know, my son, you may not like the picture you are going to find. There is so much trouble in the land today, not unlike the trouble that forced your great-grandfather from his land. Be careful.”

  Over the next three weeks Zaim and Dania expanded the bounds of their explorations, each day venturing a little further from Tareq’s home. They would return home in the evening with pictures and full of stories of the life they imagined Great-grandfather Hamza having lived.

  One late afternoon, after a particularly long day of walking, Dania excused herself to the bathroom. Zaim heard her cry out, “Zaim, come quickly.”

  He bolted from his chair. Dania was crumpled on the floor, her arms clutching her abdomen.

  “Zaim, something is wrong. Get me to a hospital.”

  Zaim panicked when he saw a flow of blood creeping down the legs of Nadia’s cream-colored slacks.

  “Tareq!” he screamed. “Call an ambulance! Something is wrong with Dania!”

  In only minutes, an ambulance bearing the sign of the Red Crescent was outside. Paramedics rushed in, and with a cursory evaluation of the situation, placed Dania on a gurney and wheeled her to the open doors of the vehicle. Zaim jumped in beside his wife, and the look in his eyes stopped any objection to his riding along. With sirens blaring, the ambulance sped through the streets.

  After traveling six blocks, the driver pulled to a sudden stop. Zaim screamed, “Why are we stopped? What’s going on?”

  From the look on the medics’ faces Zaim knew something was wrong.

  “It is an Israeli flying checkpoint,” one of them said as he stared at the floor in anger.

  Zaim tried to search their eyes, but they were averted. “Surely they will let us pass. This is an emergency,” he said, still trying to read their faces.

  The back doors of the ambulance were thrown open, and heavily armed Israeli soldiers stood outside looking in.

  “You three, out!” they ordered Zaim and the two medics. The three hurried out onto the street. Then the soldiers began a methodical search. At the same time, two other soldiers entered the back of the ambulance where Dania lay on the gurney.

  “Identification papers,” one of the soldiers demanded of the three men. The two medics produced theirs, but in the confusion and haste Zaim had left his at Tareq’s.

  “I haven’t my papers on me,” he began to explain, but before he could get the words out, two soldiers had grabbed his arms.

  “Wait,” he ple
aded. “There is a mistake. Dania and I, we are Honduran—only here for a visit. We are not Palestinian.”

  The soldiers laughed and mocked him. Zaim begged. “Please let us pass. My wife is not well and needs help. She is bleeding badly. Please, I beseech you, let us pass.”

  One of the soldiers looked at Zaim and asked again, “Where are your papers?” Zaim answered again, more forcefully. The soldier thrust his finger at Zaim’s chest. “Don’t use that tone of voice with us. We will not tolerate insubordination from your kind.”

  Zaim could see the interior of the medical van where Nadia lay writhing on the gurney. The blanket that had been covering her had fallen in a heap on the floor, and it was obvious to Zaim that she was in agony. Her moans and occasional shrieks fell heavily on his ears. Meanwhile, the soldiers seemed to be delaying every action, repeatedly calling headquarters for clarification of names and dates.

  Zaim was distraught beyond reason, begging the officers to allow him to go to his wife’s side, but they pushed him aside. Finally, in an act of desperation, he rushed past the men detaining him only to have one soldier hit him across the back of the neck with a riot stick. Zaim fell to the street, blood gushing from his nose.

  “What is wrong with you people?” he screamed at them. “Can’t you see she is in trouble. What are you, animals?”

  With two men holding him down, Zaim was helpless to move. A third man stepped on Zaim’s outstretched forearm. He could feel the heavy heel of the soldier’s boot grind into his flesh as the man slowly shifted his full weight onto the arm, and Zaim heard his bones break. The pain was excruciating. Zaim vomited. He was handcuffed and pulled so he leaned against the wall of a building.