by Jemma Wayne
For days she has been unable to uncross her arms from her chest. She has walked around numbly, frozen in this posture of defence, paralysed by fear and shock, and the cold. Ben tried once to make a joke of it when she wrapped a hospital blanket around her shoulders, telling her that it was summer, it was hot, but she could only shiver in response and he brought her some tea.
It is not how she’d imagined her first glimpse of England. Her grand arrival. In her head, Udi had not been bruised and cut and broken. He had been alight: with confidence and success, and love. He was in love. With her. He’d finally said it. But when she’d walked through the arrivals gate at Heathrow and been greeted not by Udi but by his too predictable absence, her first thought was that he’d forgotten her. She is haunted by this thought now. She’d been hoping for more, hoping he was finally ready for more, but it would not have been so unlike him. And her anger was quick. Anger and then disappointment, and then fear. She was alone. She had his phone number but only his, and her mobile didn’t work in the UK and it took nine attempts on a payphone for her to figure out the dialling code, and then, of course, there was no answer. A wild fury consumed her, a hatred sprung from frustration, a desire for him to suffer as he had made her, exacerbated more and more as the lonely airport hours passed. She left message after angry message on his mobile – messages she has now deleted – and by the time Ben arrived she had been hysterical. Now, she is unable to stand the thought that while Udi was lying unconscious in a wreckage that she can’t stop imagining, she was practically wishing him dead. She wonders if Batia saw this too, in a cup, if this is why she has always disliked her.
“Ella,” Udi says, winking at her again and ushering her closer. “So, what do you think?” He points to the bruises on his face. “Do you still like me?”
Ella laughs painfully through pursed lips, determined to make up for it all, to be strong. “Udi, how you look isn’t important,” she says. “Only thank God you’re okay.”
“Ah, but it’s very important,” Udi says, taking her hand and placing it on his scarred face. “It’s very important that you still fancy me.”
“Okay, I do,” she hurries, forcing a laugh. “Now stop touching your cuts, how do you feel? The doctors say you can try to get up if you feel ready. We can get you a wheelchair and-”
“Don’t you want to know why it’s important?” he interrupts, not letting go of her hand.
“What are you talking about, Udi?”
“It’s important, because a woman should always be attracted to her husband.” And suddenly, between their pressed palms, she feels a warm, round object. Slowly she looks down, and she sees the diamond. “Marry me, Ella,” Udi whispers through his bruised lips, and she doesn’t giggle, but her tears are answer enough.
They do not look up when a nurse enters the room to check on Udi. They are locked together, finally with the certainty of forever, despite the uncertainty of everything else. If they draw back it will be necessary for them to talk, or at least to look into each other’s eyes, and then they will be forced to address again the question of where they will live, how they will plan their future, and she will feel a need to tell him what is happening back home, what has begun. So long as they remain linked, bound and blinded by this embrace, it is not requisite to look beyond it. They hold tight, pulling in opposite directions.
Finally it is Batia who disturbs them. She has a doctor in tow and Ella moves aside so that Udi can sit up to listen. He reaches however for her hand, which she provides gladly. As their fingers interlock, Batia notices the ring and Ella catches just a hint of a smile flit across her face, though neither woman says anything. They stand silently to the side as the doctor repeats the news they have already delivered, but in a package more littered with medical terminology and detached objectivity, wrappings more persuasive. Udi nods along as the minutiae of his injuries are detailed, the facts laid out, the prognosis stated. His face betrays concentration but not despair, and when the doctor re-iterates that Israel is better equipped to deal with Udi’s kind of injury, both Ella and Batia look hopefully towards him. They intend to be sympathetic, supportive, caring, but it is hard not to appear gratified. Ella is sure that there is a reason for his accident, Batia is sure too, they have discussed it – the reason of course is his return to them. And they are sure that some day Udi will see it this way too. But not today. For although Udi is still listening to the doctor, and still sitting upright, his broad frame seeming strong and powerful in the narrow hospital bed; all at once his shoulders begin to shake, and his head shakes, and when Ella moves forward, he has to rub his chest before he can say to her, in a trembling, pleading voice she has never before heard, that he doesn’t want to leave, that he can’t.
Ella hesitates, but only for a second. At the sight of his tears she is filled with an urge to make a protective fence around him. She uncrosses her arms. “Okay.”
“What?”
“Okay, we’ll stay. We’ll do the rehab here.”
“You don’t want to go back to Israel?” Udi asks, glancing also to his mother who says nothing.
“Of course I do, but more than that I want to be with you. Your life is my life,” she tells him, and untangling his fingers from her own she reaches to her neck for the locket she wears every day underneath her shirt, and opens it into his hand. Four pieces of shrapnel fall out. They are discoloured now, and cold from lack of touch, but as hard as ever.
***
Now
19
The annual Jewish Giving campaign dinner comes at a timely moment. Think the Oscars. Wait, think the Oscars without a red carpet, without the Hollywood starlets, without Billy Crystal or Steve Martin, but with almost the same attention to fashion and at least as good food. After all, it’s Josh Berger, the crème of kosher catering.
Dad and I go to the event together every year. He has supported Jewish Giving since its inception almost 25 years ago. Mum even volunteered for a while at one of their day centres, and every time I watch a campaign film I am struck by the elderly or the ill or the previously alone who describe how their lives have been changed. This night is how the charity stays afloat, how it manages to do its work, this one night of appealing to the community. But the chatter this evening is not about Jewish Giving, not about this year’s big-name host, not even about who has or hasn’t appeared as mutton dressed as lamb. We are talking about the conflict. About the impact of the conflict. About the state of European Jewry.
As the reception comes to a close, chatter continues, but the master of ceremonies ushers us into the banquet hall for the meal. I am seated next to Dad. Most of our table’s guests are family friends but on the far side are three men I have never met before. One is an older chap, silver-topped, at least a generation older than Dad. The second is closer to his age, heavy set, skin slightly grey from too much smoke. And the third I estimate to be somewhere in his late 30s. He is sharp and well-gelled and on second glance he looks familiar. After a while I realise that he was one of the organisers of the Jewish Security training course I took part in almost a decade ago. I recall his heavy East London accent, the uncanny knack he had of turning completely normal speech into a swear fest, and his passion for protecting the community. Tonight, this seems like an important thing.
He catches me looking at him and I nod. He raises his glass before lowering his head into conversation with the man to his right. I cannot hear their exchange but all three of these men exude an air of toughness, roughness, not quite smooth despite their impeccable suits and shined Oxfords. Though they have done nothing to suggest it, when I study them I get a whiff of menace. Dad has clocked them too and I notice all of our friends sitting with a little extra swagger. In the light of recent events, there is a vicarious pride in having these men as part of our group. That’s strange I know, pride in thuggery. But it’s like having a famous relative or owning a renowned work of art – gratification from the affiliation to something that we ourselves are not.
It’s no
t that all Jews are gentle. Google ‘Jewish mob’ – Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegel, there you go. Or look up Jewish boxers. And nobody’s going to suggest that Israelis are weaklings are they? Even from my own crowd of friends at school we had our one or two loose cannons. But generally speaking, generally, we’re not fighters. We love our mothers, and don’t want bruises for meetings, and so long as there’s food don’t bother too much about the drink that might set others going, and besides, we care too much about our faces.
Clive. I remember his name: Clive.
Starters are smoked salmon and beetroot. This is followed by roast beef and veg, and then a pause before dessert for the campaign film. It is as heart-wrenching as always. It ends with the story of an elderly gentleman who first lost his wife to dementia, and is now suffering the early stages of it himself. They were both Holocaust survivors. They never had a family. Jewish Giving is giving. Immediately on the film’s finishing, envelopes are passed around with pledge cards for each guest. Clive looks at me and nods. Now the ‘surprise’ music act that is never a surprise, this year Kathy Sledge. Then the desserts. By this time many of the diners have left for journeys back to the suburbs, to sleeping children or dogs that need to pee, the outpouring of emotion and determination and cash complete. Dad turns to me.
“Ready to go?”
I nod and stand, but across the table Clive ushers me over. I feel presumptuous introducing myself, as though Clive really is some kind of celebrity, but he looks at me hard as our palms meet. “Do I know you?”
“I think I did a course you ran a while back. You’re Clive? From the security course.”
“Ri-ight. Your name’s…”
“Dan.”
“Of course, that’s it, been fucking with my head all night. Dan the man.” He turns to the middle-aged man next to him. “Dad, this here’s Danny-boy. Did the security training jobby.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“And this here’s my uncle Charlie.”
I turn to the older gentleman. He has the look of an old English rock and roller. Lined, weathered, but with a boyish twinkle. Silver hair but full and lustrous. A scar down his left cheek. He grins. “Coming to the club with us are you then Danny?”
I look to Dad. He already has on his jacket and shakes his head, jerking his thumb softly towards the door, but I can’t think of a reason to say no. Besides, tonight I feel connected to everyone, particularly to these men who are here supporting the community and teaching us how to protect it. We are connected, united, by heritage and responsibility, and shared dismay.
In the cab, my phone rings. Orli. Even now, so many months after we first met, I feel that tiny bubble of excitement when I see her number flash up. I know it can’t last forever but I love that it still happens. I can’t wait until I am able to see her every day.
“It’s finished,” she says.
Her voice is breathy, excited, triumphant. She has been working on the same painting for weeks, struggling with it, changing it, starting again. Since the conflict began the entire colour scheme has changed twice, she says. I still don’t know the subject though she talks ambiguously, and I have no idea about art terms, but I have sympathised over her quest to capture a truth. A truth. Not the truth, she reminds me. Even so, depicting even one version has been eluding her.
“Mazel Tov,” I tell her. “I knew you would do it.”
I did, but I also feel a little relieved that she finally has. I know that’s wrong. I meander and over-think constantly so why shouldn’t she? But Orli’s indecision over this painting has been unsettling to me. Normally she is so sure, so straight. I saw it that very first night next to the sea, her ocean eyes brimming with bright blue insight. Even after David died and everything was off kilter, that space beside her un-fillable, still her sadness was clear, it had direction. But lately she has been talking about the heaviness of direction, of choosing paths. This painting has paths. She says it is a portrait but it also has tracks, footsteps, and there is truth she says on both sides. If you don’t run so fast that you miss it. She has been a little fixated with running. Running forward. Running away. She does not want me to run away. I keep assuring her that I’m not running away, I’m walking with purpose. Now that the painting is finished, I hope she will regain her sense of purpose, too.
“I’m going out to celebrate,” she enthuses.
“Who with?”
“Everyone. How was your evening?”
“Still going.” I am talking quietly so that Clive and the others won’t hear. I like them, but I wouldn’t want to introduce them to Orli. They are immersed however in their own banter and are paying no attention to me. “So when can I see the painting? Do I finally get to know what it’s really about?”
“The dinner was good?”
I smile at her diversion. “The dinner was good. I’m going now to a club with some new friends.”
“Enjoy.”
We are about to say goodbye when suddenly I remember: “Orli, what was the protest you wished you had gone on last week?”
“Against the government’s actions?”
“Against?”
“Of course.” She pauses. “I know you feel differently. Israel is complicated, Dan. You will see.”
“Orli,” I begin.
“There’s never a reason,” she interrupts. “For hatred. Danny, the reason is only the excuse, only the justification, only the beginning. They took my brother, but I won’t let them take me too. I will never let them take who I am.”
“Well you’re more noble than I am.”
Clive looks up.
“It’s more complicated than that.” In the background on her end of the phone, I hear first Orli’s doorbell and then the sound of Ittai’s voice. “Everyone’s arriving,” she says.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We both linger over a silent line.
“Danny, I’ve been painting Muaz.” Her voice has lowered. I know that for her this is as revealing a confession as she can give. “It’s going to be one of the central pieces.”
“Muaz? Can I see it?”
“Not yet. The series needs balance. There’s another side. To all this, to everything.” She takes a deep breath and I feel for a moment that she is about to tell me something important, something big. But then Clive laughs, loudly, the cab is filled with rowdy hilarity, and the moment is broken. “Anyway, I’m going to Jerusalem tomorrow. I need to do some sketches there.”
“Jerusalem? Not East Jerusalem?”
“Maybe.”
“Not now. Orli, that’s not sensible. You’re not going alone?”
“I need these sketches, Danny.”
“Orli, you have to be careful.” Despite the fact that I am soon to become a citizen, the mention of certain places, certain circumstances, still triggers an outsider’s apprehension. Like Mum and Gaby with the markets and street-side cafés, and buses. True Israelis cannot live this way and I force myself to exhale. I imagine her waving her hand at me dismissively.
“Bye, Danny,” she says. And I don’t argue. She would not listen to me in any case. She is sure, she is strong, she is true.
The bouncer at the door to the club shakes the hands of my three companions. We have arrived at the entrance of an exclusive, old English, private members club and they are clearly regulars. They stride ahead of me, Clive stopping to have a word to a hostess, shaking hands with a passing waiter, comfortable and familiar. I however am struck by the grandeur of the deep red and brown upholstery, chocolate-coloured chesterfields forming separate clusters around mahogany table-tops, chandeliers dripping from the ornamented ceiling, fire-places, marble pillars. I imagine this to be a place where chess has been played, pipes smoked, whisky devoured. We sit in our suits and it strikes me that to an outsider we have passed ourselves off – Jews, immigrants, so integrated, so at ease, as English as the next man. Not geese but chickens.
Charlie waves to a waiter who hurries towards him and takes his order o
f champagne.
“You’ll have some bubbly, won’t you my boy?” Charlie declares, not really as a question, clapping his heavy hand onto my leg. His smile dances but his eyes are weary. I feel a surge of gratitude for not having had to battle the world as I imagine he has. A pulse of admiration.
“Sure. Thank you very much.”
“So.” His voice is gravelly. It makes me think of smoke and old movie stars, and mobsters. “What’s your game?”
“Pardon?”
“What do you do, Danny-boy?” He sits forwards in his chair, a certain whimsy in the way he caresses his champagne flute – just a finger and thumb on the spine, the other digits dancing merrily.
It is the first time I have been asked this question since I left the bank. I recall Orli asking me the same thing, then rapidly following it with an entreaty of why. And Gaby asking me what I’ll do now. And Safia, back when we met at uni asking me what I wanted to do afterwards. And Hayley already knowing. It would be liberating to answer with the truth: nothing. Right now I am doing nothing to define or label me. To give me away. Just a deep void awaiting definition.
“I’m moving to Israel,” I choose as my reply. “Next week.”
“Danny-boy,” Clive’s Dad, Sid, interjects. “You’re going to the old homeland? Eretz Yis-ra-el? What are you gonna do over there then? Property? You should get into property. I tell you, a lot’s happening out there.”
“Just not near the border.” Charlie laughs, patting my leg again. “Not unless you’ve got good rocket insurance. Fucking Arabs.”
Fucking Arabs? I feel my smile freeze into a contorted grimace. Did I hear right? Fucking Arabs? Seriously?
The old man is oblivious to my bewilderment and laughs at his own joke, sipping his champagne, fingers raised. None of the others bat an eyelid. Perhaps I did mishear. I must have misheard.
