Ahmed cleared his throat and greeted the soldiers. He was sure they were going to ask for his papers, to prove once again that he was under surveillance. Certainly the dark-skinned one was studying his wares, as if inspecting the place for something suspicious.
“Good evening,” he spoke in fluent Arabic. “Do you have any cashews? Unsalted ones?”
“Yes. Over here,” he replied, motioning to a bin at the far end of a table. “They arrived just yesterday and should be fresh.”
“I’ll take two hundred grams please.”
“Of course. It will be one minute.”
“You’re reading about buildings,” the soldier went on, motioning to Ahmed’s book. “Are you interested in architecture?”
“Very much.” Ahmed was filling a bag with nuts.
“Me too. I would like to study it and tour the world’s buildings.”
“That is my ambition too,” Ahmed said with a smile, passing the soldier the bag of nuts. “That will be eight shekels.”
“Thanks. Hey Rafi, do you want something?” he asked his partner.
“No. Finish quickly. There’s been a stabbing near the Temple Mount.”
“Thanks again,” the soldier said, stuffing the nuts into a pocket on his hip. “And have a good evening.” He hurried in his friend’s footsteps, his expression hardening as he wandered off and his hand working the gun off his shoulder.
“He was very nice,” Moussa said, once the soldiers were gone. “In a different life maybe you could be friends.”
“He is our enemy. We could never be friends. Only a child could think such a thing.”
Moussa blushed. He recalled the question he was going to ask, about people who never experience anger. He didn’t have to ask it now because Ahmed had already given his answer.
Chapter Six
Avi was with his mom outside a grocery store on Agron Street. He’d wanted to practise his clarinet before the Sabbath began, but she had asked him to help with the shopping. In actual fact, she didn’t want to drive by herself. Although it had been five years since she’d gotten her licence, the traffic still made her nervous, not only because it moved very quickly, but because Israelis were impetuous drivers. “Why can’t they drive like Canadians?” she would grumble, when people cut her off or honked in irritation. But for some strange reason, when someone was beside her, she could drive as aggressively as anyone else.
“Shalom giveret,” the store guard greeted them. “Can I look inside your purse?”
“Of course,” his mother answered. She opened her purse, allowing the guard to scan its hollows. Avi followed suit with the knapsack on his shoulders. After swiping his pants and jacket with a scanner, the old guy motioned them both inside. “Shabbat shalom,” he called to them.
“And to you,” his mother replied with a smile.
They moved methodically down each of the aisles. While his mother seemed frazzled at times, as if she’d just arrived in Israel, in her own way she was competent. Her Hebrew was excellent and she’d won herself a government position. She could hold her own with Israelis, many of whom could be difficult at times. And she was tough. Since they’d first set foot in Israel, there’d been attacks and bombings and a near state of war. Through all of these she’d kept her cool, even when she’d missed — by minutes — a bus whose interior had been blown to pieces. To look at her one would never guess that she could handle tension well, unlike his father, a muscular man who, after a single year, had thrown the towel in.
They were moving through the meat section. His mom was excited because the chicken was on sale. As she ordered three kilos of thighs, a friend of hers drew near, another ex-Canadian. They started discussing a friend they had in common, so Avi wandered off and, bored out of his mind, tried composing a song using the brand names around him. As he groped for a word that would rhyme with “Teva,” Zohara suddenly rounded a corner, wheeling an overburdened grocery cart. Both of them flinched and she seemed to be blushing. He realized he was blushing, too.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi. I’m shopping,” she said, as if he needed to be told.
“I’m shopping too. I’m waiting for my mom who’s gabbing with her friend.”
“My mother’s doing the same!” She had an infectious smile. “She’s talking to a colleague. They’ll be at it for hours.”
“Are they discussing strategies at B’Tselem? How to bring the government down?”
“They’re discussing a patient who received a by-pass — they’re colleagues at Shaarei Tzedek hospital.”
“I see you’re buying Osem products,” he observed, motioning to the items in her buggy. “I’m surprised you’re still buying Israeli goods. You could probably bring the country down if only you avoided its cookies.”
She looked as if she were about to get angry. But, just as suddenly, she chuckled and said, “We’re targeting Elite chocolate today. If they go broke, the country will fall.”
Both of them laughed. Avi saw his mother was finishing up with her friend. He was going to rejoin her when Zohara called him back.
“Would you like to go for coffee?”
“What? Now? With our mothers in tow?”
“Not now. But maybe next week. We can talk more about bringing the country to its knees.”
“Okay. That would be nice.”
“Great,” she said, “I’ll be in touch.” As he was moving off, in a near state of shock, she again called out.
“Avi!”
“Yes?”
“You play like an angel.”
He returned to his mother who was sorting through the sandwich meat. After observing that he looked very pleased with himself, she said that a friend of hers was moving to Cleveland, having lived in Tel Aviv for six years. “What a waste,” she kept saying. “What a terrible pity.”
“I guess you’re never going back,” he said, as they passed into the dairy section.
“Going back where?”
“To Canada. Where else?”
“I would love to see my sister again.”
“I mean permanently. After all, you grew up in Toronto. And Dad is there….”
“Look at that. The yogourt is so cheap.”
They were strange, his parents. Neither hated the other, even though they had good reason to: his dad because his mom wouldn’t leave, or his mom because his dad had bolted. And even though they lived apart, they still seemed very fond of each other. His dad stayed over when he came to visit, and on the phone they were always warm with each other. It was strange that a country had driven them asunder. No, cancel that, it wasn’t strange at all. Not when Israel was the country involved, demanding what it did of the people who lived there.
“You haven’t answered,” he spoke again. “Would you move back permanently?”
“You’re like your father,” she pretended to groan. “Always cross-examining people. Still, it’s a matter of history, I suppose. For centuries we prayed to get back to the Holy Land, for two thousand years that’s all we could think of. And then Israel was created — ten short years before I was born. What was I supposed to do? Ignore its existence? So I gave it a shot and, well, I love it here. So no, I’ll never leave.”
While speaking she’d been placing dairy products in the buggy. Clucking her tongue at the price of the cheddar, she wheeled the buggy to the tinned goods section.
“But everything is harder here,” Avi observed. “There are bombs and riots and shootings and wars. In Canada the army wouldn’t drag your sons away. And the world loves Canadians whereas it can’t stand Israelis….”
“My home is here,” she answered firmly, examining cans of tomato sauce. “I have a craving for spaghetti. How about you?”
“Spaghetti would be great.”
“And I’ll make a Caesar s
alad. But what about dessert?”
As she moved off to the frozen food section, he followed with the buggy, swallowing hard. Why wasn’t he more like her? Why hadn’t he acquired her fortitude, instead of his dad’s wariness? It was so unjust.
He wheeled the buggy next to her. She was standing in front of a line of freezers and motioning to the ice cream section. Her grin said it all. A country with such an amazing selection of desserts had to be an okay place to live.
From somewhere in the middle of the compound, a heavy metal door slammed closed. The bang started a chain of echoes that bounced down one hall after the next, until the sound reverberated in Moussa’s ears. And no sooner had the vibrations died than another door closed, or some bars slammed home, starting the sequence all over again. Since he’d arrived at the prison three hours earlier, there hadn’t been one moment of silence. Either the echo of banging metal punctuated the air or ghost-like voices came trickling through, snatches of conversation and lots of cursing. When the language was decipherable, it was Arabic, always. The inmates were Palestinian and doing all the talking, while the guards were Israeli and stone-cold silent. Moussa couldn’t decide which group worried him more.
They had traveled to Beersheva on an early morning bus. The vehicle had been crowded and he’d stood all the way, to allow his mother and jadda to sit. The drive had taken just over an hour and, while monotonous, had piqued his interest, coming as he did from the heart of the city. Flanking the road were unending fields, all with crops of different kinds, wheat, barley, beans, and sunflowers, which were magnificent as they grinned at them passing. Some fields were covered in plastic sheeting; these conserved moisture, Ahmed had explained. It was no small feat the Jews had managed: they had converted barren desert into fertile fields.
They took a cab from the Beersheva bus station to the prison. The Russian driver, who spoke Hebrew with an accent, knew without asking where they’d wanted to go. While he’d been brusque to the point of hostile, he’d treated their jadda with due consideration, being sure to hold her as she entered the cab and to shield her head as she ducked through the doorway.
The jail itself hadn’t come as a surprise. Moussa had visited his ab before, in different prisons sure, but one was like another. There was always a tower, heavy metal gates, armed guards, and fences topped with razor wire. There was also the tired exercise yard, with concrete walls and mottled dust and a soccer ball whose leather stripping had been patched many times.
The prisoners, too, were always the same. They were mostly adults, about Ahmed’s age, although some prisoners were maybe a bit younger than Moussa. They were dressed in jeans, sweatshirts, and sandals and looked as if they hadn’t bathed in ages. Many hadn’t shaved and looked partially crazed.
And then there were the visitors. They were female, for the most part, and all of them looked worn, with fear and, at the same time, expectation. Unlike the prisoners, who seemed tough as leather, these visitors were sniffling or crying aloud. Many were exhausted. Even if they had the proper permits, many hours could pass before they saw their loved ones. The waiting room where Moussa and his family sat was packed with visitors from across the country, Bethlehem, Nablus, Ramallah, Jenin, each carrying gifts of food and clothing. And cigarettes. Everyone in the prison, guards and inmates alike, smoked like chimneys whenever they could. The air was poisonous, like the compound itself.
“Shakir!” a large guard cried. “Relatives for Tariq Shakir!”
“That’s us,” Ahmed exclaimed, approaching the guard. Moussa quickly followed as Alisha and his mother helped his jadda along. The guard flung back a heavy sliding door and ushered everyone through. Banging the door closed behind them, he led them down a hallway that was glaringly lit with bulbs in wire cages. As Moussa had seen on other occasions, there wasn’t one detail to comfort the eye, no paintings, no knick-knacks, no interesting colours. But what he did expect? This place was a jail.
“You have fifteen minutes,” the guard announced once he’d led them to a steel cage with a two-foot opening in the grill through which one’s hands could be extended. Inside was a pale, thin man with shining eyes and a ragged beard. He was rocking back and forth and smiling widely. He was Tariq, Moussa’s father.
“Ab!” his children called. For the next two minutes they embraced their father (awkwardly, because the grill interfered), shed some tears, and asked about his health. Assuring them that he was fine, that the food was bland but he was eating well, and that his cellmates were kind and pious men, he looked them over carefully.
He asked how the business was faring. Ahmed swiftly brought him up to date, mentioning the handsome profit that year, who their suppliers were, who owed them money, and who had tried to rob them blind. “Overall we’re doing quite well,” he concluded. “Especially when you consider the effect of the wall. But we’d be doing much better with you to guide us.”
Moussa almost smiled here. When his father had been in charge, he had spent more time exchanging gossip than he had going over the daily accounts. He had also invested his money badly and one year had lost more than fifty thousand shekels. Even with the wall’s disruptions, the business had never done so well.
Moussa was also thinking about how his father had been … difficult. At home he’d complained about the frequent mess and his children’s flagrant lack of respect. If one of them had laughed too loud, or quarreled with a sibling, or not finished his dinner, Tariq had often lost his cool, and sometimes spanked the guilty party. While Moussa did miss him terribly, he was glad he wasn’t there to point out his failings. He sometimes wondered whether his ab’s hot temper was somehow responsible for his own lack of anger; but it wasn’t right to put this blame on his father.
They were discussing Alisha’s wedding now. Tariq said he approved of Sayed. They hadn’t met in person yet, but the fact he was religious impressed him greatly. The family could do with a practicing Muslim, unlike his own sons who’d seldom seen the inside of a mosque. An inmate had met Sayed’s family, he added, and had only positive things to say. “Men like him will win us a country,” he said, “and will gain our family honour in the process. You have chosen well,” he told his daughter.
He asked his youngest son how school was going. Moussa answered evasively, saying school was fine and he was making progress. Ahmed said he was being too modest and revealed that he’d won a math contest last spring. Tariq shrugged and asked when he’d last opened the Koran. When Moussa confessed he hadn’t read it in awhile, Tariq said learning was a waste without it. He instructed his sons to attend mosque daily, warning them that a day would come when they would otherwise regret it. His words hardly came as a surprise. Soon after his arrest, he’d become more pious. Since then, he’d been scornful of Moussa’s interests. And dismissed Ahmed’s love of architecture as a waste of time.
“Two more minutes,” the guard interjected.
“I want you to know,” Tariq addressed the family, as they again tried to embrace him through the slit in the grill, “that at first I cursed the luck that landed me here. But with time to think, and friends to steer me, I now realize I was saved from a life of sin. I regret nothing. I am not unhappy. Don’t think I’m trapped here like a dog in a kennel, but see me as a knife whose blade is being sharpened for a day of inevitable reckoning.”
He then enjoined them not to stain the family’s honour: a family without honour, he stressed, was like an olive grove without a source of water. He paused a moment and a change came over him. His features slackened, he started shaking, and he seemed to age before their very eyes. As a guard drew near, he started speaking in a rush, to the effect that he wished that all of them could stay, that he loved to hear their voices, and that he dreamed of being home and sleeping in his bed. He also yearned to be at the wedding, and cursed himself for being separate from his family.
The guard announced the visit was over. A second guard appeared and, opening a doo
r at the back of the cell, escorted Tariq into a hallway. The old man just had time to yell, “Pray for me! Pray for me! And Moussa, be a man!”
And that was that. They were heading down a hallway to the crowded waiting room. From there they shuffled through the prison’s east wing and made their way toward the building’s exit, passing families who were still waiting for the privilege of spending fifteen minutes with their loved ones. And now they were hunting down a cab, which didn’t come to the jail so often and were hard to flag down. But Moussa was oblivious. He wasn’t thinking of the scalding heat, the hustle bustle, the long ride home, or the ache of seeing his ab confined. Instead he was dwelling on his father’s words. “Be a man!” he had said. What did that mean? Exactly what had he been trying to say?
Come on, a voice whispered, as if you don’t know.
Chapter Seven
The noise was indescribable. It sounded like an ogre clearing his throat. A moment later the volume grew so that it sounded more like a snorting bull, attacking from behind in a murderous fury. Then the noise was impossibly loud and hitting them from every side at once, as if a tsunami were pouring over the city. Avi flinched at the vibrations. And then he grinned.
Ten jets were flying in perfect formation. The first was metres ahead of three others, which were closely followed by another two, then a line of three and a lone one behind. All ten seemed to be inches from each other, and the trajectory of each was so beautifully timed that it was like watching one machine in motion, a mechanical Jewish star in motion.
Crescent Star Page 5
