Peace, Love and Lies

by Oren Sanderson

  Every night in the late hours he would take my hand and gently lead me to the bed. Just like an old couple who were used to it all. But it didn’t last long. After few nights, when it was bedtime again, I started feeling fresh excitement. Ronny could feel it. He caressed me for a very long time, with patience and thoroughness. Then I pounced on him wildly with a desperation that soon turned to submission and to crying. And then, against my wish, the night was over. I thought about the morning, and about the fact that I had nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. Could that studio in Tel Aviv really be the one and only place left to me, where I could cast anchor?

  Ronny left in the morning with three cameras, saying that he would be back in the afternoon, and for me not to go anywhere. I felt restless. The walls had started to suffocate me. I wore one of his flannel shirts and my jeans and left the apartment. I wanted to find out what had happened to Mom. The image of her, lying in the bath came back to haunt me and was driving me crazy. I started walking along Second Avenue when I felt a terrible dizziness and had to sit down. I found a place at the edge of the sidewalk next to a homeless man who eyed me with suspicion. I was hoping to blend in again and not be noticed by anyone. I lay my cheek on the sidewalk and then came a blessed big darkness.

  I remember the next part like a scene through an opaque window. The emergency room of a large hospital that wasn’t Lenox Hill. A police squad car and the ambassador’s Chevrolet. I was lying in a bed at the official residence, and Dr. Chomsky, the embassy doctor, was pacing the room. He was American and a gastrointestinal expert who always prescribed laxatives and diets and stomach pills as a remedy for every illness. Mom was there with bandages on her wrists. Danny tried to approach me just once. I gestured with my hands, tried to whisper, and tried to scream for him to leave, and then threw up. I didn’t want him near me. I feared and loathed him.

  The next thing I remember, I was in the Chevrolet again, with George at the wheel and I was in the back with Mom; sitting far apart from each other. We were riding along Forty-Second Street with its blinking lights announcing live porn shows and colorful fluorescents of movie houses and theaters. The car turned north on West Side Highway along the Hudson. I peered at the river. Winter was behind us and spring hadn’t arrived yet. The trees along Palisades Parkway were blooming with fresh pale green colors that announced the beginning of the summer forests.

  We stopped at the entrance to a small hotel on the banks of a lake at the edge of the Poconos Forests. We entered a room and Mom spoke for the first time that day. “We will spend a week here.” She was talking to the window as if afraid to look at me. “We will be friends again and we will relax and will put some order to our thoughts; so that we can move on. I know I wasn’t supposed to do what I did and I promise you, I swear to you, that I will never do it again.” She started to cry.

  I looked at her without saying a word. She sat down next to me and hugged me.

  “Can you hear me, Shira?”

  I didn’t respond. She started shaking my shoulder. “Answer me, do you hear? Answer me, you must. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “You suffered a severe shock. I know I did a terrible thing that I shouldn’t have done, but it’s over now and we are together, you and I.”

  “Danny?” I tried to whisper.

  “I am married to him,” she said. “He is my third man and I can’t give up on him. He can be very cruel in his own sweet way, but he needs me. He needs me and I will be by his side. I will be by his side as long as he doesn’t give up on me and doesn’t cast me away.”

  I walked to the open door to the balcony that overlooked the forest and the lake and I felt lost. I was dizzy and was afraid I would collapse again. I turned to look at her, pointed at my chest, and mouthed the words, “What about me?”

  “You will stay with us,” she said. “You will go back to school. You must be a good girl. You must stay here, to watch over me.” I began to shake my head no, no, no, no, until her image and the whole room became a blur. I lay my head on the table and banged my fists on it until she held me so I couldn’t move and said, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  Danny arrived the next day in his royal Chevi, escorted by a police car. I sneaked out to the waterfront before he even got in and watched the guest house from a safe distance. He went out after an hour, seemed to be looking for me, but quickly gave up on it, combed his hair, got to the car and disappeared. I went back to the room, a long time after he had left, and wrote a note to Mom. “I will go to Tel Aviv and I will rent a room and become a photographer.” She read the note in disbelief, folded it carefully, put it in her purse and said, “Maybe.” She turned on the television and for the rest of the evening didn’t say a word.

  Almost three weeks went by before we boarded an El Al flight. It was a strange world of compressed air and miniature meals. People ran up and down the aisles with no clear purpose; religious people gathering for prayer every four hours were thrown off-balance with the plane’s movement, just like on the number nine bus in Jerusalem. Some read aloud, some screamed, stewardesses tried to put some order in desperation and disdain, and then the interminable ten hours were over. The flight manager announced in a soft happy voice that it was time to buckle up seat belts for the landing at Ben Gurion Airport, and the announcement system started playing played Israeli songs. I buckled up and started crying.

  I looked at Mom and said, “You won’t try to run away from me again, will you?”

  She opened her eyes in amazement, let out a short yelp and said, “Je te jure, cherie, je te jure. I swear it, darling.” Her eyes too started to tear up.

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  A foreign ministry staffer was waiting for us at the entrance to the terminal, sweating and swearing to himself after we told him we were not going to Jerusalem. “But it’s just impossible,” he said. “Ambassador Schneider-Taylor and Mrs. Gertrude are waiting for you in Rehavia, in Jerusalem. These are my instructions. These are the instructions,” he repeated it as if this would decide the matter. With the authority of a university lecturer, Mom told him, “We, sir, are going to the Dan Hotel in Tel Aviv. You can drive us there and check us in and make sure that the ministry covers the charges, or you can follow your instructions, go to Jerusalem and send our warm regards to Theo and Gert, but I do believe that someone here is going to pay dearly for it.”

  He drove us to the Dan Hotel, and I felt a lovely warmth melting my bones as I thought about Rupin Street, a mere hundred yards away. Theo and Gert would have to wait.

  Mom stayed with me for another week. She found out that Gideon Hadas, a foreign ministry employee who had just been appointed ambassador to Vienna, was looking for a house-sitter, someone to watch over his apartment at the officers’ neighborhood in Tel Aviv. This was a well-kept house of a very high market price, which no amount of rent could pay for any damage caused by bad tenants. In addition, the ambassador was leaving behind all the contents so dear to his heart. In short, he was looking for someone who would watch over his house for the next three years and vacate it for two weeks every summer when he arrived for his annual vacation. It sounded like an ideal arrangement for me. Mom made me promise to call her once a week in New York and visit her sister once a week in Bat-Yam.

  The day after she left, I went to house number twelve on Rupin Street without even calling. For no obvious reason, I was certain that Ronny would be there waiting for me. It was the right thing and it should have happened. On his mailbox, there was a small note glued to the box cover that said, “I’m upstairs.” I ran four floors up and arrived, breathless, at a large door on the roof.

  The gentle Filipino woman who opened the door said in funny Hebrew, “Mister Ronny isn’t here. Would you like to wait for him?” I walked in. She worked in the small apartment, cleaning, and organizing, and singing Frank Sinatra tunes the whole time with a tiny smile on her face. She was in her early twenties.

  After an hour I
asked, “Is he always late?”

  “I don’t think he is late. He doesn’t say and I don’t ask.” She smiled and I felt a bad chill.

  “Are you living with him?”

  “I live with him, yes.” She had this gentle smile again. I left her my phone number and walked back to the officers’ neighborhood through Ben Gurion Boulevard. I felt no anger or sadness. Just surprise and disappointment. I still hoped to be a photographer.

  I started studying communications at Tel Aviv University in Ramat Aviv and got a part-time job at the Government Press Office at Sokolov Press House. I insisted on working in the photography department. I wasn’t interested in PR or information. I would print photos from government events and send them to the newspapers and the embassies that brought high-level visitors to the country. I would send the photos in the morning and wait for my lunch at noon with the reporters and the photographers. I would then, on occasion, sit down and wait to see when Ronny would arrive. I missed the long auburn hair, the embarrassed look, and the special smile.

  At the university, I would wander around without noticing anyone among the thousands of students. I did like the ride to the campus and back, though. I would stare out the bus window at the city; such a sane and normal city. There were no skyscrapers to threaten me and no steep and depressing hills like in Jerusalem. There were no rough stones that hide God knows what behind them, no lecherous old men lurking in coffee shops in wait for elementary school girls or ultra-orthodox men looking for an opportunity to rub against someone. Tel Aviv was open and liberal. It was a city with no rules and no commitment. I could breathe freely. A year and two weeks passed and I was sipping a bowl of soup at the Sokolov House restaurant when I looked up and saw Ronny.

  It was summer. He was wearing his usual black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, carrying three camera bags, and passed by without noticing me. He then sat down at a table with an old reporter who was happy to see him. They spoke quietly and smiled from time to time. After they parted and before he left the restaurant, I waved at him. He stopped, looked at me, and said, “Holy shit.”

  “I thought you would have something nicer to say,” I choked out.

  “She speaks,” he said with real amazement. “Shira speaks again, I don’t believe it.” He sat down next to me.

  “Where have you been this whole time?” I asked.

  He didn’t try to protest. “Here, in China, in the Philippines, and here again.”

  “Who is the Filipino girl?” I asked as if I deserved an explanation.

  “Oh, Amparo, a wonderful girl. The first one who hasn’t asked me for anything. She lives with me and takes care of me. Why do you ask?”

  “I was hoping to get back to you.”

  He looked at me with a hardly noticeable recoil and got back on his feet.

  “I must run now. I’ll be back in three days. Will you be here?” He disappeared.

  I saw him again two weeks later and ignored him. This time he came and sat at my table without even asking. This apologetic look in his eyes was irresistible.

  “I am sorry for my stupid conduct,” I said. He was concentrating on eating his soup.

  “The story with Amparo isn’t very serious,” he said after finishing the soup. “She left her children in Bisaya. That’s a very poor part of the Philippines. She is here to make some money and send it back. I am helping her.”

  “But she’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?”

  “Not really. It’s more of an open relationship. That’s not the point.”

  He gave me one of his disarming looks and I had to stop myself from jumping on him. “The point is you, Shira,” he said with some sadness. “You need to get your act together; pull the pieces together, whatever you call it; stand on your own two feet, before you can have any kind of relationship with anyone.”

  “And who says I am not standing on my own two feet?”

  We set a meeting for the following morning. He was going to the Golan Heights for a photo shoot on fauna, flora, and the army.

  “You should know that Amparo will be coming too. She has a soft spot for soldiers, so don’t get all excited.”

  “You have no problem in getting her into a military base?”

  “It’s all arranged. She even has a press card and an authorization from the military spokesman. That’s how we work.”

  We left at six in the morning in a rented Jeep Wagoneer. Amparo sat next to him, softly singing her songs. We stopped in Herzliyah to pick up the reporter. “A very special girl,” he said. “Maybe you’ve met before. Her name is Karni.”

  After a short, bright career, Karni Meridor had resigned from the foreign ministry with a loud protest and started to rebuild her life. We heard a lot about her as an investigative reporter and a military correspondent. Danny couldn’t get over the fact that she had resigned and set out on a new path without even consulting with him.

  She boarded the Wagoneer, jumped on me with surprise and a big motherly kiss, hugged me and said, “You’ve grown so much! It’s great to see you!” I could hardly talk. She was in her mid-thirties, but her hair already had shades of gray. “It's good you’re here now,” she said. “You’ll finally start to meet some real people.”

  The stop was at Nafah Army Base. The regional commander, an armored corps brigade colonel, short and curly-haired, by the name of Haggay, received us. From the way he greeted us, you would have thought we were old friends that hadn’t seen each other in ages. We boarded two military jeeps and started driving among the tank battalions to an observation point overlooking the border with Syria. Haggay was explaining about the volcanic terrain of the Golan Heights and the wind regime, coming from Bagdad height, creating frequent storms over the region. We then had lunch at a battalion mess. The soldiers ogled Amparo who was wearing shorts and showing incredible legs. But all she was looking at was Haggay’s mouth, and drinking up every word. I could tell that she was hypnotized. Karni, on the other hand, wouldn’t let him go and kept asking pressing questions about his career and his private life and whether his military career was imposing on his family life. She seemed to me, in her New York Nicks cap, as she always had been, energetic, sharp, and invincible. Haggay was trying his very best to impress her while ignoring Amparo’s raptured looks. Karni was taking notes while Haggay was talking freely about the Syrians, about the government’s policy that was not clear to him at all. He felt—off record—that nobody was setting goals like they should have. Karni agreed and seemed to start liking him for these words.

  Ronny hardly said a word. He was taking lots of photographs, including many of me.

  “Any chance you could leave your assistant with us for the weekend?” Haggay asked Ronny about Amparo, half joking, while chatting after lunch. “There’s a lot of additional photography that can be done here”

  |”It’s up to her.” Ronny did not seem to be surprised. Is this what Karni had in mind when she’d said that we’d meet real people? “I am sure you know the Talmudic saying, ‘a Jew shall not bed with a gentile, lest she become bound to him as a dog’?”

  Haggay looked at him confused, “You mean she is bound to you, is that it?”

  “Not as such,” Ronny replied. “We have an understanding, and ultimately she always comes back to me. But if she decides to stay with you—just be careful.”

  “Careful of what, exactly?”

  “Careful of that formula of the elders that I mentioned. It doesn’t always function in one direction only. You might well find yourself bound to her like a dog, and then you’ll be in trouble. You’ll have a family problem, and you’ll have a military promotion problem. You see, I, for one, am through with these things. No family, no promotion, no binds to anyone; I don’t belong to anyone, and I don’t owe anything to anyone.”

  In the military jeep, Karni was still interrogating Haggay. “What will you be when you grow up?” Without missing a beat, he replied, “Chief of staff, and then minister of defense.”

  “Why minister of defens
e? Don’t you think that these are the very leaders who are throwing us under the bus in Washington?”

  “I don’t care about them,” he replied. “All these ambassadors remind me of a strange combination of mice and snakes; they’re all about words and sales. The end result will be determined not by international support but by Israel’s strength. And that’s where I am an expert, and that’s what I do well. And that’s why this will be my direction.”

  “Do you realize that without a bit of politics and public relations you won’t get anywhere?”

  Haggay smiled and said, “Well, that’s what I have you for, isn’t it?”

  Karni smiled and said, “No, no! For the time being, I see that you are busy with Amparo.”

  “That won’t last forever,” said Haggay. “It has to be temporary because Ronny gave me a warning, which I take very seriously.”

  On the ride back, Karni was sitting in the back and I was sitting next to Ronny. To my surprise, Amparo indeed stayed at the Nafah camp and Ronny didn’t seem to mind.

  “I give her two weeks before I start looking for a new assistant,” he suddenly said when we stopped in Afula for coffee. “This is the longest period she has ever stayed away. Wonderful girl. Never harmed a fly. She has two sons in the Philippines."

  "And two ex-husbands in addition" he added after a long pause. "One lives in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and works on contracts, and the other lives in New York and drives the French ambassador to the UN. You can’t tell all of that just by looking at her. She simply loves life and got hooked on Israel so strongly that I can’t see her ever leaving this country.”

  Later on the ride, Karni was praising me for leaving New York. Again she mentioned how happy she was to have left the foreign service and its fake and terrible lifestyle. She then asked me what I was up to. “Why don’t you come work for the NBC bureau? With your English and your energy, I think you could go far. Let’s see if we can set something up for you. Call me tomorrow.”