Chapter Three
Lunging fiercely, Avi stopped the ball. In one continuous sweep of motion, he dispatched it to Izzy who was ten meters off. His kick was hard and accurate.
“Nice shot,” Yossi yelled encouragingly. “I see you’re feeling mean today.”
Avi smiled and wiped the sweat off his brow. Despite the rainstorm three days earlier, the land was parched and the greenery seemed faded. The temperature was high for the end of April and the sun had all the force of a hammer. It didn’t help that the soccer field was completely exposed. Still, he loved soccer intensely; it was the only time he knew no fear.
On the edges of the field stood an array of houses, as well as a squat, two storey tower that had been built by the British and should have been razed long ago. Over in the distance stood the mysterious “hangar,” a long, low building whose gates were always closed. Everything was built from Jerusalem stone and, while attractive enough, it intensified the heat.
The ball was coming back at him. It was drifting wide and, with practiced movements, Avi stopped it and prepared to kick it again. But Yossi interrupted. A group of boys was approaching.
“They’re here. Okay. Let’s gather around.”
Nodding, Avi ran over to their coach and waited for the team to assemble. Even in the heat they were a striking sight: their blue shorts and chalk white shirts were bright and fresh and stood out against the parched landscape. Most of them had really filled out. Erez, for example, had been all elbows last year but over the winter had grown some serious muscle. Like all of them he’d been lifting weights, to prepare for the day the army engaged him. After all, the best units required a high fitness level.
“Okay, listen up,” Yossi said as soon as everyone had gathered near. “As you know, it has taken my friend Rami and I five months to put this match together. Critics said we were out of our minds, that you guys would end up killing each other. But we persevered. Both of us believe a tournament will draw both sides together. So let’s greet our guests warmly and enjoy the game. If things work out, we’ll play them again.”
Everyone nodded. They had heard that these Palestinians were very skilled and were wondering how well they would fare against them. At the same time they were curious to see some Arabs close up. When Yossi had proposed his idea last December, he’d asked if any of them had talked to Arabs before, not workers on construction sites or cleaners in their buildings, but kids their own age who loved playing soccer. Each of them had acknowledged that, no, they hadn’t really talked to Palestinians. They had also laughed self-consciously when they found out that these kids lived minutes away. It was strange, they’d admitted, that a population so nearby could be so removed from their daily radar.
While some had lacked enthusiasm, no one doubted Yossi’s motivation. He had served with distinction on the Gaza Strip and been wounded in the course of rescuing someone. He’d been stabbed and his left arm had never recovered. Far from becoming bitter, however, he’d decided to redirect his efforts towards peace.
“But listen,” he added. “This is important. Politics has a way of spoiling things, so don’t mention topics that will make them angry.”
“Like that bombing in Tel Aviv?” Shimshon asked. His cousin had been the victim of a suicide bomber. The young man had escaped with his life but would never be the same.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Yossi said. “Look, we can either make this work or all of us can go home now.”
“You’re right,” Shimshon said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
When everyone had agreed to watch themselves, Yossi ran to greet his friend who was leading the Arab team onto the field. There were thirteen players altogether; their shirts were red and, instead of shorts, they were dressed in matching coal black pants. Some were tall and very solid. Rami was giving them last minute advice.
“Everyone should be on his best behaviour,” he said, waving to Yossi who was heading towards them. “I’m tired of watching the news each day and seeing Jews and Arabs kill one another. For once I’d like to be able to say we managed something good between us. A game of soccer might not seem important, but if it’s the only peaceful contact we have, it could be more important than anything else. As strange as it seems, you guys are making history.”
Moussa looked around. The Damascus Gate was five minutes away but he felt he like he was visiting a foreign country. As soon as you passed through the Damascus Gate, the language was Arabic, the crowds were Muslim, the flag was Palestinian, and the police were your enemy. That wasn’t true here: Hebrew was the language spoken, the people were Jewish, and the police, overall, were saints and heroes. He was reminded of the axiom of choice in geometry: in one system parallel lines will never intersect and every proof follows from this basic fact; in another, it’s assumed they’ll meet and the resulting system is just as consistent. It was amazing such differences could exist side by side.
As they’d walked from their neighbourhood, his friends had muttered strings of insults at the Jews. When they had spotted a cop car, they had spat all together. And they had clenched their fists when three soldiers had passed. Their collective anger was so pointed, in fact, that it seemed to be contributing to the heat. And Moussa? He felt nothing. He swore like them and spat like them, but that vital, angry spark was missing. Happily this would change once he’d started playing soccer. One reason he loved the game was that it triggered the aggression that usually escaped him.
But what was Rami saying?
“… And remember, avoid all talk of politics. We have problems and they have problems. If we dwell on our grievances, it will ruin everything.”
“So we shouldn’t mention the wall?” Mohammed asked. He had relatives living in a West Bank village. He rarely saw this side of the family because they were never issued the appropriate permits.
“All of us have suffered,” Rami said. They knew what he meant. Three years back his brother had been in a riot. The police had opened fire and shot him in the head. Even though it had been a rubber bullet, he died soon after, at the tender age of seventeen. Mohammed nodded and pressed a finger to his lips, his way of signaling he would watch what he said.
Rami smiled and ran ahead. A moment later he and Yossi met: in front of all their students, they openly embraced.
“I’m open! Over here!” Avi cried.
It was fifty-five minutes into the game. The Jews had two points, the Arabs one. Five minutes remained before the match was over — they had agreed to play two thirty minutes halves, instead of the full ninety minutes. The afternoon heat was oppressive but neither team noticed: each wanted to win.
“Erez! Stop clowning. To me or Chaim! He’s over on your right!”
The Palestinians were very good. Their defense was weak but their strikers were terrific and their overall conditioning was excellent. Avi’s group had played lots of teams in the region but seldom faced such competition. Still, the Israelis were also very strong. Their first goal had been beautiful: Erez had passed to Avi, three meters past the halfway line, and he’d wriggled through two players, finally passing to Chaim, who’d returned it Erez, who’d slipped it to Avi who by then was well within range of the goal. Even before he’d kicked, he’d known he would score. Everything had felt … integrated. It had come as no surprise when, in a blur of motion, he’d smashed it in, completely catching the keeper off guard.
Why wasn’t he fearless like this all the time?
“Chaim! Quick! Back to Erez!”
The other side had scored soon after. The point had come off a corner kick: one player had headed it left of the goal where a teammate had kicked it past Yakovi’s left shoulder. The first half had ended a minute after and both sides had eyed each other in ice-cold silence. The coaches had tried to introduce players. After some lukewarm exchanges in broken English these chats had faltered then died altogether. Some smiles were excha
nged but the mood wasn’t friendly.
“No! Watch it! Over on your left!”
Minutes into the second half, the Jews had scored a second goal. Ilan had lobed the ball far forward where, by luck more than anything, Chaim had slipped it in. Not to be outdone, the Arabs scored soon after. Except one player had been off-side — or so it had seemed. The Arabs had cheered, unaware of the error, then fallen into a pregnant silence as the coaches had argued over the goal. “He was off-side I’m pretty sure,” Yossi had said. “But maybe I’m wrong.” Rami had judged the goal invalid, but his expression was uneasy when his players had groaned.
And now there was only one minute to go. The Arabs had control of the ball and were passing it cautiously back and forth as they sized up the Israeli line for signs of weakness. The ball traveled to a raw-boned teen and Avi dashed forward to intercept it. Even as he caught it with the ball of his foot and pivoted left to avoid the player, he didn’t see another kid emerge from behind — Moussa. The pair collided violently. While Avi staggered back from the blow, Moussa was knocked flat.
There was a hush. From down the field, Yossi blew his whistle. Six players were moving in on the scene, three Arabs and three Jews. Their expressions were intense. Avi himself was rubbing his arm and, dazed as he was, could feel his fear wafting back. Steeling himself, he walked over to Moussa.
“Are you okay?” he asked in English.
“Ha kol beseder,” Moussa answered in Hebrew before continuing in English. “You are very fast.”
“So are you,” Avi said with a smile. He hesitated briefly then extended his hand. “And I’m sorry I bumped into you. I didn’t see you coming.”
“It’s not your fault. I didn’t see you either,” Moussa said, a small smile forming on his lips. Then he caught himself. How odd. For the last hour he’d been full of fury and now, because of this collision perhaps, his old tranquility was slipping back. Frowning hard, he brushed off Avi’s hand and staggered to his feet.
Sensing the strangeness of the mood at large, the coaches decided to end the game then and there. The Jews had won, 2–1.
The teams shook hands reluctantly, while the coaches kept saying the game had been great and that their teams had never fought so hard. Their smiles were wide, and they meant what they said, but there was something forced about their speech. And when they embraced again, there was something forced about that too, although they agreed the teams should play again on the fifth of May.
Moussa and Avi shook hands as well. They didn’t say a word to each other. Avi felt his fear returning; Moussa felt his rage retreating. Each was disappointed in himself. They both joined their respective teams and, within moments, forgot about each other’s existence.
The Arab team was back on Al-Wad Road, drinking soda. They were seated a few buildings down from Moussa’s family stall and immediately opposite a yawning doorway. If they hadn’t been so angry they would have talked about the mystery it posed. Day and night it was watched by a man they called Wasiim (which meant handsome) because he was so unusually ugly. No one knew what lay beyond the door although guesses had been made involving drugs, prostitutes, guns, and magic carpets. But just then they were focused on the game.
“Amir was on side.”
“It’s typical the Jews would rob us like that.”
“And they’re violent. Did you see how one of them pushed Moussa over?”
“He pretended he was sorry by offering his hand.”
“I’m glad you refused it. The guy was a jerk.”
Moussa just smiled. He was thinking, now that the game was over, that the Jew had seemed a decent sort of guy.
Obviously his interior fires had died.
The Israelis were seated outside a makolet. They were cooling down with popsicles. They were seated directly across from the hangar whose gates, as always, were firmly closed. If they hadn’t been so angry they might have talked about the mystery it posed. No one knew what lay beyond its door, although they’d speculated it was a research centre or a weapons factory or some special kind of jail. They hated the place because it straddled the land that led directly to the soccer field: its closed gates meant they had to trudge three extra blocks to get around it. Their minds weren’t on the hangar, but on the soccer match.
“They tried to rob us. That goal was off side.”
“That’s so typical of Arabs. If they can’t win fairly, they’ll try to cheat. It’s a good thing Yossi was there to keep their coach honest.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t pick a fight.”
“One almost did. Why do you think he knocked into Avi?”
“It was great the way you extended a hand, Avi. You showed him he didn’t frighten you one bit.”
Avi merely smiled. Now that the game was over and done with, he was amazed he’d had the courage to extend his hand to the Arab.
All his fears had returned.
Chapter Four
The siren started with a low-pitched sound. It was joined by a high note, then a higher note still, until the tri-tone could be heard across the entire city. As soon as the siren reached their ears, the class stopped chatting and climbed to their feet. The classroom window overlooked a street that was crowded with mid-morning traffic. Every driver had stopped his car, climbed outside, and stood in silence. This same scene was taking place across the nation, in every kibbutz, moshav, town, village, city, base, and highway.
As the siren blared — it would last two full minutes — Avi closed his eyes and thought about his zaidy. He had died three years earlier and still Avi missed him, especially on occasions like this: his zaidy had been a victim of the Holocaust.
He had seldom discussed it. For a long time Avi had assumed his zaidy was like other people, despite his accent and foreign habits. At six he had gained some inkling of the truth. Zaidy had been over while his parents were out and Avi had asked him, in a fit of curiosity, where all his brothers and sisters had gone. Much to his surprise, his zaidy’s brow had darkened and he’d answered in a choking voice, “I had six siblings but Hitler took them.” Only later had his mother explained that Zaidy’s past had been very hard and some very bad people had destroyed his family.
In later years, of course, he had read about the Holocaust. It was hard to imagine. Six million souls. Much like his zaidy, these people had been gentle, loving, decent, and hard-working. It was only because they had all been Jewish — and most never even practiced the religion — that the Germans had sent them to death camps in Europe. And apart from a few exceptional souls, no one had helped. No government, no army, no church, no one.
The spring before his death, Zaidy had been in Israel. He and Avi had been standing in a park when the siren had sounded to commemorate the victims of the Holocaust. Avi remembered his strangled expression. His wrinkles had tightened into a grimace of pain as the siren had brought home the losses he’d suffered: parents lost, siblings lost, aunties, uncles, and cousins lost. Five thousand Jews had lived in his town; by war’s end only eighteen had survived. When the siren stopped, the old man had whispered, “They should be here. They should be here. This land is theirs. They should be here.”
Avi’s eyes opened. Around him his friends were standing at attention, including Dov and Ilan, the two class clowns. They were as serious as everyone else; after all, their families had been gassed as well. Six million people. All that death and sorrow. Pressure mounted behind Avi’s eyes and he had to struggle hard to keep himself from crying. His zaidy. His poor zaidy.
The siren was insistent. “Do you get the point?” it seemed to be screaming. “Do you understand the pain we suffered? Do you understand we must be vigilant always? Do you understand this can’t happen again? No nation can ever hurt us again? We can never feel fear again and allow ourselves to be led off to slaughter, like sheep, like goats, like chickens, like cattle? Do you understand? Do you?”
But still he couldn’t shake his fear.
“So what does the Shoah mean today?”
Shulamit, their teacher, was studying the class. Generally good-natured, she was serious for the moment. “Is it is helpful to dwell upon our suffering at length? Certainly we wish to remember the victims, but what do we achieve by reviewing the past? Yes, Ilan?”
“It reminds us that we have to be tough. We were abandoned back in ’39. If we were threatened today, the world wouldn’t care. So forget about becoming doctors and lawyers. Forget about playing the violin and piano. Forget about business and science and computers. Our survival begins with Tzahal. If the Germans had confronted our guys from Golani, they might have thought twice about their Final Solution.”
This said, Ilan crossed his arms and stared defiantly at the students around him. His words came as no surprise. His father was part of the Kfir Brigade, which was fighting terrorism across the West Bank. He had addressed the school earlier that year. While decent and good-humoured, he was as tough as they come. And the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
Avi was wondering what type of tree he came from.
“Thank you Ilan. Would anyone like to add something? Dinah.”
“Some people say there shouldn’t be a Jewish state. They think Israel is prejudiced because it was made with only Jews in mind. But when you think how we were killed in Europe, how every country turned its back on us, we need a Jewish state, if only as a refuge. The gentiles can’t be trusted to look after our welfare.”
Zohara raised her hand. The students smiled. Her parents were members of B’Tselem, an Israeli human rights organization, and were often critical of Israel’s tactics. Other students took a liberal line, but Zohara tended to be the most extreme.
“If the Shoah taught us anything, it’s that violence is evil and counter-productive. Okay, we Jews need a refuge, great, but at what cost to the people around us? I mean, if our country was born from the ashes of the Holocaust, we of all peoples can’t behave like Nazis.”
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