Cat At The Wall

by Deborah Ellis

The principal looked at Ms. Zero.

  “You are right that this is about more than the class trip,” she said. “The detentions are part of Clare’s assignments. If she does not complete them, the incomplete work will bring down her overall average.”

  “Now, hang on a second,” Mom said, getting up on her lawyer legs. “Are you telling me that you might lower my daughter’s grades if she doesn’t write out some poem you arbitrarily assigned for detention?”

  I had a very good feeling about the way the meeting was going, and I was right. The principal did not want a hassle with my mother. He directed Ms. Zero to wipe out the crushing load of punishment poems (he didn’t say “crushing load,” but that’s what it was) and to find another, more reasonable detention for me to do.

  Ms. Zero just nodded and said, “All right.” She didn’t argue. She did not look ashamed. She looked exactly as I imagine she would have looked if she had won.

  When I went back to class after lunch, my name was off the board. I got a lot of looks from the other kids, and a lot of questions at recess.

  I thought about bragging but I just didn’t feel like it.

  I think I felt shame. I’m not sure. It’s not something I was used to feeling, so I could be wrong.

  Twenty-two

  —

  An army helicopter hovered right over the little house.

  I heard it come lower. It stirred up dust and blew off people’s hats and headscarves. It sent people scurrying into doorways and gutters. There was a volley of machine-gun fire from above.

  Were they shooting at the shooters? Nobody told me. There was a lot of shouting but no one seemed to be talking to anyone.

  The helicopter rose up again, out of the range of the sniper’s rifle fire. That didn’t stop all the noise.

  My hearing as a cat is very sensitive, something people don’t ever think about when they are making loud noises. They never check to see if there is a cat around before they light a firecracker or shoot a gun.

  I was small compared to all the people and buildings, but a bullet could easily still find its way to me. I’m sure many cats have been killed in war, not that you ever hear about them on the news. Maybe, if I ever become a human again, I could give speeches in schools about this, and make people more aware of how war is bad for cats.

  Some of the boys who had been Ms. Fahima’s students helped her round up the little kids and get them and the knitting lady into the old lady’s house. They left the kids with the lady and returned to the street.

  There seemed to be shots coming from all directions now. I couldn’t tell who was shooting. Was the Israeli army shooting at the snipers? Were the snipers trying to kill Aaron and Simcha? Did anyone really know what the heck was going on?

  Behind me, Omar wailed with fear and would not shut up. Aaron and Simcha were running around the little house, one moment at the window with their rifles, the next ducking down to take cover. Each time they ducked, they pulled Omar to the ground with them so he would be out of the line of fire. Each time they popped up again, he popped up, too.

  I did not want to see him killed.

  Some of the people in the streets called out for quiet.

  “This demonstration solves nothing!” they said. “Let’s calm down and keep everyone safe.”

  Others called for blood. “Death to Israel! Kill the Jews! Push them into the sea!”

  The whole thing was a colossal mess.

  One of the rioters brought out a megaphone. He must have been some sort of bigwig rioter because he climbed up on a rock and the others paid attention to him.

  “The Israeli army is holding a Palestinian boy hostage!” he shouted in Arabic. “They have killed his parents at a checkpoint, and now they want to kill him. They won’t be happy until every last Palestinian is dead in the streets. We say no more! No more!”

  Rioters took up the chant and the noise got worse.

  “What did he say?” Simcha asked.

  “He said the army killed the boy’s parents at a checkpoint,” Aaron told him.

  Ms. Fahima, with fear all over her face, tried again to open the door.

  “Let me inside!” she cried out in Hebrew. “Let Omar go and take me in his place!”

  “Do you think it’s true?” Simcha asked. “Do you think his parents got killed by our soldiers?”

  “If it’s true, they’ll tear us apart if we go out there,” said Aaron. “Get away!” he shouted at Ms. Fahima.

  Next came the tear gas, the small black canisters hitting the ground and spewing out bad-smelling fog. Rioters picked up the canisters and threw them back at the Israeli troops, but more kept coming.

  The window I was sitting in had a lot of cracks around the windowpane. Cats have a strong sense of smell and tiny lungs. But no one cared about that.

  “Back away from the house! Let the soldiers leave and no one will get hurt!” came an order from the army over a loudspeaker.

  The rioters ignored it. They started to pound on the door. It was not a strong door. It would not take them very long to break through.

  I was thinking of sliding under the sofa to try to stay safe, when a rock broke through the window. I was covered in shattered glass.

  In the same instant, some rioter plunged an ax into the door.

  They were going to get in. People were going to die.

  Twenty-three

  —

  Which brings me to the day I died.

  The day my detentions were erased, Ms. Zero asked me to stay behind at the end of school.

  I have to admit, I was curious to see what she would do. I swaggered a bit as I walked up to her desk.

  She put down her pen, sat back in her chair and looked up at me. She smiled her vampire smile.

  “It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?” she said.

  I didn’t reply. She went on talking.

  “And it’s almost over. I wonder what the takeaway will be for you. When you’re an old woman and you look back on your time in the eighth grade, I wonder what you will remember.”

  She stood up.

  “One last detention,” she said. “Come with me.”

  I figured she was going to make me clean out some cupboard or storage room, so I followed her. But she stopped at the classroom door.

  Right beside the poster of the punishment poem.

  I looked at her.

  “I’m not copying it out,” I said. “The principal said I didn’t have to.”

  “I don’t want you to copy it out,” she said. “I just want you to read it. One time. Out loud.”

  I was sure it was a trick.

  “I just read it and then I’m done?”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “You can’t make me read it.”

  “You are correct,” she said. “I am asking you to read it. You can choose to do it or not. But I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t. It’s simple enough.”

  I stared at her. Then I stared at the poster. My fingers started to curl into fists.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll read it with you. We’ll alternate verses. I’ll start us off. Go placidly amid the noise and the haste and remember what peace there may be in silence.”

  She looked at me and waited. I wanted to smash her.

  Instead, I read the next line. No, that’s not true. I didn’t read it. I recited it. Somehow, the poem had worked its way into my brain even though I did not want it there.

  “As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.”

  “Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story,” said Ms. Zero. She wasn’t reading, either.

  “If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter,” I spat out. My voice got louder. “… for a
lways there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.”

  “Be yourself,” Zero said calmly.

  “Take kindly the counsel of the years …” You old cow, I thought.

  “Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.”

  “… be gentle with yourself,” I said. The damn thing was almost over. My eyes were starting to sting.

  Ms. Sealand took a step toward me. Her face looked kind and concerned. She looked the way my grandmother looked when some ratty old, smelly old drunk came into the soup kitchen in the winter without shoes.

  “You are a child of the universe,” she said, putting her hand gently on my arm. “… no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.”

  I backed away. “And whether or not it is clear to you …”

  I knew the rest of the words in that line. Of course I knew them. They just wouldn’t come out of my mouth.

  I felt a tear dripping down my cheek. Ms. Zero wasn’t exactly blocking the door, but she wasn’t making it easy for me to run through it, either.

  I wasn’t going to let her win. I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand and tried again.

  “And whether or not it is clear to you …”

  Ms. Zero finished the line for me.

  “… no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”

  That was it. I’d had enough.

  I pushed my way passed Zero and out into the empty hall. I swung out at open locker doors and kicked a stray gym shoe out of my way.

  Stupid school, I thought. Stupid poem. The universe was not unfolding as it should. The universe was a big freaking mess where good people got killed and where people like me were able to keep on living.

  I went to my locker and I gathered up all my stuff. I was finished with that school and I was finished with Ms. Zero. I didn’t know what kind of lie I’d tell my parents to keep from having to go back, but I’d figure something out. I was going to walk out of that school and never walk back into it again.

  Which is exactly what happened.

  Loaded down with binders, gym bag, books and jackets, I took out my phone and texted mean things about Ms. Zero as I left the school.

  I kept sending messages when I got outside, messages slamming her stupid lectures and her ugly smile and the way she dressed like a prison guard. I walked fast, wanting to get far away from that terrible school and all the people in it.

  I approached the street. I kept walking, texting furiously with every step.

  Ms. Zero was standing across the street, talking with some dumb student from the sixth grade. I saw her look up and see me.

  And she started to wave.

  She was waving at me to cross over to her.

  Stupid poem, I texted as I stepped out into the road. Stupid poem from a stupid teacher.

  And that’s when the truck hit me.

  And that’s when I died.

  It was all her fault. She waved me over. She killed me.

  Twenty-four

  —

  “Get away from the door or we will shoot!”

  The order from the military loudspeaker boomed through the air.

  “Death to Israel!” the rioters chanted. “Smash the occupation!”

  I was afraid to move. I was covered in window glass. If I got a piece of glass stuck in my paw, I would not be able to get it out, and even if I did, the wound could get infected. But I had to move because the rioters were excited by the danger and the sound of things breaking. They could burst into the house and crush me.

  “We have to get out of here,” Simcha said. “Put the boy in front. If they see him first, they might not attack us.”

  “We’re not using a child as a shield,” said Aaron. “That’s not who we are. We’ll put him between us. They’re crazy out there. We have to protect him.”

  “Either we go out or they’re coming in. Out there, at least we’ve got the army to back us.”

  Aaron tried to grab Omar. Omar pulled away and ran over to me. He quickly brushed the glass from my fur, cutting his fingers but not stopping. I stood still and let him do it. When he had the biggest pieces gone he picked me up and held me against his chest, tight in his arms. He carried me to the door.

  “Goplacidlyamidthenoiseandthehaste …” he said as Simcha opened the door. I said the words with him.

  Aaron moved the boy and me behind him and in front of Simcha. We stood in the open doorway for a moment and let everyone get a good look at us.

  The Israeli army moved forward. The rioters moved forward.

  “Back off!” warned the army over the loudspeaker.

  “You back off!” the crowd yelled back.

  A weird silence fell on the area like a fog. I saw soldiers aim their rifles. I saw teenaged boys pick up rocks.

  It looked like all hell was going to break out right over us.

  And that’s when I made my move.

  I did it without thinking. I just did it.

  I leapt down from the boy’s arms and out into the little space between the enemies.

  I started to dance.

  I danced for all of them, up on my hind legs.

  I jumped. I twisted in the air. I pretended to catch a bird and I batted around an invisible mouse. I flopped on my back and waved my paws. I strutted and boogied and made myself look like a complete and utter idiot.

  And everybody shut up and stopped to watch.

  Soldiers lowered their rifles and rioters dropped their rocks.

  “What’s with the cat?” I heard someone say.

  That was just enough.

  Everyone took a breath. Ms. Fahima came over and took Omar into her arms. The soldiers grabbed Aaron and Simcha and took them out of the way of the rioters. Everyone went back to their corners.

  My performance knocked the wind right out of their sails, as my grandmother would say.

  Everyone drifted away from the little house. The soldiers went back to their base. The villagers went home. Omar went with Ms. Fahima.

  And I was left all alone.

  Twenty-five

  —

  After everyone had left and I was alone, it turned into an ordinary day. I had to sniff around the garbage bags for food. I had to avoid the other cats. I had to be careful not to get run over when I crossed the road.

  No one thanked me. No one even remembered that I was there.

  I was alone again, and no one cared.

  It’s the sort of thing that should make me feel very sorry for myself. And I’ve tried. I’ve tried to go back to my old thoughts, my blaming-Ms.-Zero-for-everything thoughts, but it’s not working.

  I did something useful, even though it was a very small thing. It wasn’t like I brought peace to the world or anything. I just kept some people from killing each other for a little while. I was useful. It felt good.

  Nothing I did will last. Omar will live the rest of his life without his parents. The killing will keep on going.

  But in that little place, for those little moments, I actually did something good.

  Context is everything, Ms. Sealand said. Without understanding context, we are going to keep getting things wrong.

  I think I got something wrong about her.

  She may not have hated me. She may not have had it in for me from the beginning.

  She may not have been waving to get me to cross the street.

  She may have been waving to tell me to stay where I was.

  I don’t know what the point is of this new understanding. I can’t do anything with it. I can’t repeat the eighth grade and do it the way I should have done it the first time. I can’t go back and tell Polly I’m sorry for calling her Fishface. I’ll never play Monopoly again on a Family Game Night. That’s all passed for me.

  Unless this is all a coma, and I’m going
to wake up and get my life back. Or unless God decides I’ve done my detention as a cat, moves me up to heaven and lets me see my grandma again.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen. Nobody ever tells me anything.

  I can’t keep wandering around eating garbage and running from other cats. All this thinking has messed with my head and I’m really missing my family.

  I need to have a plan.

  I think I’ll go look for Omar. He can’t be that hard to find. Maybe he’ll remember me. Maybe he’ll let me be his new family.

  Maybe the world is not completely rotten.

  Maybe I’ll strive to be happy.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Deborah Ellis is the celebrated author of more than twenty books for young people. She is best known for her Breadwinner series, which has been published in twenty-five languages and has earned more than $1 million in royalties to benefit Canadian Women for Women in Afghanistan and Street Kids International. She has won the Jane Addams Children’s Book Award, the University of California’s Middle East Book Award, the Governor General’s Award, the Ruth Schwartz Award, Sweden’s Peter Pan Prize and the Vicky Metcalf Award for a Body of Work. She recently received the Ontario Library Association’s President’s Award for Exceptional Achievement, and she has been named to the Order of Ontario. She lives in Simcoe, Ontario.

  A CONVERSATION WITH DEBORAH ELLIS

  by Jennifer Abel Kovitz

  Photo credit: Heidy van Dyk

  Q: You’ve said that you wrote The Cat at the Wall after returning from your second trip to Israel-Palestine and feeling more confused than before you left, and that the novel is your “attempt to sort it all out.” Can you elaborate on what you mean by this?

  A: The first time I went to Israel and Palestine, late in 2002, I came home thinking the conflict was primarily due to the two sides not knowing one another. The children had very few, if any, opportunities to interact with each other. Consequently, their knowledge of the other side was limited to news reports and violent encounters. This made it difficult for them to see the humanity of the other side.