Birthright
Page 39
He smiled when he realized that it was probably close to this spot, three thousand years earlier, that the ancient Jews, returning from their exile in Egypt, had looked with joy from hills like these into a land of milk and honey.
Shalman lay down on the blanket and looked up at the sky, a deep, almost violet blue. It was a clear sky, no longer full of angry war planes or the smoke from artillery guns or the trace of bullets whizzing through the air. It was a peaceful sky. An Israeli sky.
“How long do you think this will last?”
It was the same question that Mustafa had asked the previous week, the previous day, and just an hour ago.
“God knows, because He knows everything, and I don’t,” said Shalman.
“Daddy said God,” piped up Vered, her mouth full of biscuit, her lips ringed by creamy white milk.
Mustafa hauled himself from lying on his back onto his elbow and looked at Vered. “Are you enjoying the picnic, darling?”
She beamed and nodded vigorously. Then she turned when she thought she heard the noise of some small animal in the undergrowth.
“Do you think the Arab armies will let up now that they’ve signed an armistice?” Mustafa asked.
Shalman shrugged. “There’s been so much killing, so much hatred. On the one hand, I’m certain the Jews and the Arabs want this whole disaster to be over. On the other hand, the Arab leaderships have already declared that they’ll never accept Israel in their midst.”
Mustafa smiled. “Why do you Jews always have to have two hands? We Arabs only have one opinion, and the rest is Insha’ Allah.”
Having an ear for languages, Vered mimicked the word Insha’Allah but couldn’t quite get her little tongue around its cadences.
Shalman smiled. “On the one hand, you saved my life; on the other hand, I saved yours. That’s life.”
“So life returns to normal,” said Mustafa.
“Normal? If only I knew what that means. But at least the Hebrew University is starting up its archaeology courses again, which means you can enroll in your degree course, and then we can—”
“Are you crazy? They’ll never accept me. I’m an Arab. A Palestinian. An enemy. No, my friend, forget that. I’m back to being a farmer, doing what my father and his father did.”
“Over my dead body. There’s not a single statement put out by the university authorities that says Palestinian Arabs are not allowed. If they did, I’d be the first to stand in the middle of the campus and scream from the rooftops.”
“You’re being naive, Shalman. Our people have just finished trying to kill your people. You don’t seriously think for one moment that the Jews are going to allow us Arabs back as if nothing happened. Do you?”
Vered, listening to every word and not understanding a thing, repeated quickly, “Do you?”
“Now that the armistice has been signed—”
“Then you’re an idiot, because—”
“Daddy ijut,” said Vered.
Both men looked at her, and she beamed a mischievous smile, knowing that she’d had an impact.
“So much like her mother,” said Shalman. “That, for me, is the greatest tragedy of this war—that women like Judit were the casualties.”
Mustafa nodded. “I wish I could thank her for what she told you. She saved my family. We would have been killed had it not been for her.”
Shalman put his finger to his lips and nodded toward Vered. “I don’t speak in the past tense,” he told Mustafa. “When she asks about Judit, I tell her she’ll be back. How do I know?”
He said nothing more. How could he? How would he explain to his daughter what had probably happened to her mother or, to Mustafa, the complexities of a woman like Judit? He could never tell his Arab friend, nor Vered, nor anybody, what Immanuel Berin had confided to him shortly after she’d disappeared—that she was a Russian assassin who’d probably been responsible for killing dozens of innocent men and women. It was a secret that he’d take to his grave. It made life intensely hard for him. He still loved Judit, yearned for her, admired all the qualities in her that had made their love so passionate.
On the other hand, he hated her with a depth and intensity that frightened him, hated her for the way she’d ruined his life, hated her for the way she’d left Vered to grow up without a mother, hated her for her fanaticism and militancy. But he knew that he had to bury his hatred, because it would only damage Vered and those he loved if the truth were ever known.
“Do you ever wonder what happened to her? Where she’s—?” Mustafa was about to say “buried” but stopped himself, remembering that Vered was a very bright little girl who would probably repeat the word, which would hurt Shalman even more.
Shalman lifted his arm and pointed into the Judean wilderness. “Somewhere out there. Along with all the thousands of Jews and Arabs and Christians, Bedouin and travelers and wanderers who have crisscrossed this land. Who knows? Remember when you and I found that skeleton in the caves near your home? Maybe one day a thousand years from now, some archaeologist will discover my Judit’s bones and . . .” He fell silent.
Mustafa nodded. There was nothing more to say. All these two young men could do—one a Muslim, one a Jew; one a Palestinian and one an Israeli—was stare out into the land of Israel, the land of hope, and beyond into the land of Palestine and the eternity of history. And wonder.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Pablo Picasso said, “Others have seen what is and asked why. I have seen what could be and asked why not.” In the tough commercial world of publishing, the route of safety is all too often the path dictated. Not so with the stellar team at Simon & Schuster Australia, who saw the daring vision that we presented, and said, “Yes, let’s do it.” So to Lou Johnson, Larissa Edwards, Roberta Ivers, Laurie Ormond, Jo Butler, and Jo Jarrah go my most sincere thanks for their confidence, support, and advice.
My thanks and admiration also to Harold and Rebecca Finger for their continued backing and encouragement. And to Mike Jones, an amazing co-author, whose leaps of imagination often caused him to crash through the ceiling.
My love for their wisdom and understanding go to my wife, Eva, and children, Georgina, Jonathan, and Raffe, for bearing with me on this long journey to the City on a Hill.
Alan Gold
No one writes a book alone, and this book has enjoyed the enormous support of a wonderful circle of collaborators. We could ask for no better partners than our publishers, Simon & Schuster Australia—Lou Johnson, Larissa Edwards, Roberta Ivers, and the whole S&S team. Likewise Harold Finger, for his passion and faith. Of course, I have to thank my co-writer, Alan, for having me along to contribute to this wild project he dreamed up. Finally, and most of all, my eternal thanks and love go to Leonie for everything, always and forever.
Mike Jones
ALAN GOLD is an internationally published and translated author of fifteen novels, his most recent Bell of the Desert, published in 2014 in the United States. He speaks regularly to national and international conferences on a range of subjects, most notably the recent growth of anti-Semitism. In 2001 he was a delegate at the notorious United Nations World Conference on Racism and Xenophobia held in Durban, South Africa, and has addressed UN conferences and meetings, as well as speaking throughout the world to universities and community groups.
Alan is a regular contributor to The Australian, The Spectator, and other media as an opinion columnist and literary critic, as well as being a lecturer and mentor at the master’s and doctoral level in creative writing at major universities.
MIKE JONES is an award-winning writer who works across forms, including books, screen, and digital interactive media.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Alan Gold and Mike Jones
Originally published in 2013 as Stateless by Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited.
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ISBN 978-1-4767-5986-9
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