Crescent Star

by Nicholas Maes

  The planes broke up and started to climb, releasing streams of exhaust that were dyed blue and white. The crowd far below roared in approval, Avi as loud as anyone else.

  It was Yom Haatzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day. School had ended early, so he and two friends had walked to Zion Square, where they’d bought ice cream and were taking in the festivities. Musicians were scattered up and down Ben Yehuda Street: a brass trio was nearby; two violinists were playing a few metres down; and over in the distance a guy was strumming a banjo. There were even two pianists playing an upright piano that they’d hauled to the street with a mover’s trolley. And, standing on a table in front of a café, was a man dressed up as David Ben Gurion, Israel’s first head of state. In a stentorian voice he was reciting the speech that had marked the country’s birth in 1948. His audience was applauding and waving flags ecstatically.

  There were also lots of cops around: they were lining the street and standing two–three metres apart. On the nearby roofs more of them were visible, armed with rifles and tear-gas guns. Given the day’s nature, and the high density crowds, there lurked the possibility of a bomb attack.

  “Where is everybody?” Ilan asked.

  “It isn’t crowded enough?” Avi teased.

  “He means the girls,” Erez said. “They said they’d meet us here. Ilan’s holding his breath for Zohara.”

  “Zohara? That lefty! In your dreams!” Ilan sneered.

  “I see the way you look at her. Pretty soon you’re going to be handing out pamphlets. ‘End the occupation! Hug a Palestinian!’”

  “You’re crazy! I’d never date a bleeding heart like her. Every time you wanted a kiss, she’d recite from Resolution 242. No thank you.”

  “If Prime Minister Rabin could shake hands with Chairman Arafat,” Erez imitated the voice of a news broadcaster, “love can blossom between Zohara Stern and the right-wing extremist Ilan Safir.”

  “She reads too much,” Ilan complained. “And her glasses make her look like an owl.”

  “If Sadat could shake hands with Menachem Begin, Ilan can get used to dating an owl.” Erez could barely keep himself from laughing.

  “And she’s too sensitive,” Ilan said. “I’ll bet she’s a vegetarian and wouldn’t even eat shwarma. And she would make her boyfriend give up meat as well.”

  “If Israel could defeat its enemies in the Six Day War, Ilan can eat veggies to satisfy the peacenik Zohara.” As he joked, Erez took a cigarette out.

  “What are you doing?” Ilan asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m having a smoke.”

  “Are you crazy? You won’t get into Golani if you’re hooked on those. Hand them over!”

  “Hey! Quit it! If I want to smoke, it’s my personal business…!”

  As his friends mock-wrestled, Avi studied the crowd. The musicians and actors were going full force, people were dancing, singing, and eating and, overall, the atmosphere was joyous. Then, he spied an old woman standing to one side. Her hair was white, she was very frail and her shoulders were draped with a worn, grey raincoat, despite the raging heat. She was also crying openly. Tears were streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. Avi was going to turn away in case she wanted privacy, but he was struck with the thought that she might require help.

  “Excuse me,” he spoke gently, “is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine, thank you,” she replied, with a heavy foreign accent. She even laughed, only to start sobbing again.

  “Are you sure?” he asked uncertainly.

  “I get like this on Yom Haatzmaut,” she said. “When I was your age and living in Poland, I never dreamed Jews would one day have an army and a place to call home. I can’t tell you how beautiful this is. In Yiddish we would say mechaia tsu sein a yid. It’s not so bad to be a Jew. But forgive a foolish senior and enjoy the day.”

  Smiling at the woman, Avi returned to his friends. Erez had a smoke in his mouth and Ilan was trying to yank it away. Still scuffling, Ilan yelled that they’d spotted Avi with his latest girlfriend and they’d never guessed that he liked older women.

  The jets came screaming back overhead and Ilan and Erez stopped fooling around and watched as the F-18s laid claim to the sky. The crowd was spellbound. The planes were so fast, so unerring, so invincible that they seemed to promise the ants on the ground that no one would hurt them, no harm would ever come to pass, not when they were patrolling the heavens.

  “The air force,” Ilan sighed. “That’s the place to be? How about it guys?”

  “Count me in,” Erez said.

  “Me too,” Avi seconded.

  There was no point mentioning his fear of heights.

  Moussa was heading down Al-Wad Road, was pushing a wheelbarrow laden with orders. He was fast approaching the Via Dolorosa. The street was almost empty, but for three vendors, an old Christian, and a group of boys, none of whom he recognized. There were five of them, no older than twelve. They were dragging a string of flags behind them — small, plastic Israeli flags. They must have grabbed them from the yeshiva down the road, home to Israeli religious students whose goal, it seemed, was to overrun the quarter with Jews. These boys were kicking the flags and spitting on them and treading them under foot.

  One vendor smiled and cheered them on. The old Christian warned there were soldiers close by and the boys should take their fun elsewhere. They paid no attention.

  One kid pulled out a box of matches. Striking a light, he set the flags on fire. The resultant smoke was heavy and black, and smelled toxic.

  Moussa thought this was a bad idea, not only because it was a wild gesture but because it would draw the cops’ attention. But what did he care? He had his work to look after.

  “Excuse me. Coming through,” he said.

  The kids ignored him.

  “Hey guys! I have a schedule to keep! Move aside.”

  “You want to join us? We have more flags to burn,” the boy with the matches yelled. He was a sinewy, scabby, unscrubbed rat who looked like he’d thrown his share of stones at Israelis.

  “I’m in a hurry. Some other time.”

  “You know what day it is?” The rat thought nothing of Moussa’s size. He was standing not even a meter away, waving a flag in front of his face so that the smoke wafted into his lungs. “It’s the worst day on the calendar, that’s what it is. The least you can do is set a flag on fire.”

  “I have work to do.”

  “He has work,” the rat cried out. “What do think we’re doing?”

  “I don’t know. Fooling around?”

  The rat-boy moved so quickly that he seemed to pull the knife from thin air. It had a six-inch blade with a serrated edge that looked like it had seen its share of use. Brandishing it expertly, he stabbed the air a few times.

  “Still think I’m fooling around?”

  It wasn’t the knife that worried Moussa so much as the rat himself. His face was drawn in such a grimace of rage that his skin looked like it was ready to tear and expose the snarling skull below. Before Moussa could think of an appropriate answer, the flag’s heavy flame reached the young brute’s fingers, causing him to drop the plastic in pain. As he licked his hand, there was a raucous yell from further down. The smoke from the flags had attracted the police.

  “Let’s beat it,” the rat screamed to his gang, flying down an alley with his knife in hand.

  “Stop!” several policemen yelled, running after the kids at full tilt. The pedestrians on the scene didn’t move aside but pretended to go about their daily business. One vendor had a cart full of apples, which he set at an angle to block the path and win the kids three extra seconds. A cop shoved the cart aside, toppling it over and sending the fruit everywhere. The vendor started yelling and demanding compensation, his curses tearing the air to shreds. His shouts triggered a volle
y of others. People had emerged from the nearby shops and faces were staring from a dozen windows, their mouths wide open, cursing the Jews. Several teens had sprouted from the earth and were volleying apples at the police.

  The Israelis turned and faced their attackers, allowing the twelve-year old boys to returned and provoke them further. Apples were flying so thick and fast that the police took shelter in a nearby doorway and called for backup. They had pulled their guns out and might start shooting.

  Moussa couldn’t believe it. Two minutes ago the place had been peaceful and now it was hosting a miniature riot. It wasn’t just that rat who was angry; the entire neighbourhood had exploded.

  Pulling on his barrow, he retreated up the street. Plenty of apples lay nearby and no one would notice if he threw one at the police, but he wasn’t even tempted. He wanted to go home.

  As he pushed his way forward that, he considered that despite the three-year difference in age, that rat was twice the man he was.

  Chapter Eight

  Avi’s team was on the field. Some were stretching and limbering up, while a few were taking shots at the goal. The heat was merciless. It felt more like August than early May.

  The team looked spiffy: each had sewn a blue star on his shirt, to demonstrate their pride in Eretz Yisrael. Yossi wasn’t happy. He thought the symbol would annoy the other team and alter the tone he was hoping to achieve. Still, he let the issue pass. When Chaim unfolded a flag, and planted it at their end of the field, he told him to put the banner away. “Pride is one thing,” he’d stated. “Provocation another.”

  “So where are they?” Shimshon asked. “They’re twenty minutes late.”

  “They’re scared,” Erez said. “They know we’re going to kick their butts.”

  “Unless they can’t get organized. That’s typical of them. They can never get their act together and that’s why we beat them when we go to war.” This said, Ilan hammered a ball past the goalie. “You’ll have to do better than that!” he yelled at Yakovi.

  Avi was about to charge a ball when Yossi gave a blast of his whistle. Their “guests” had finally arrived. They weren’t alone: two Israeli cops were escorting them along. Avi’s team moved in for a closer look.

  Yossi and Rami embraced and shook hands. Before Rami could speak, a cop approached Yossi and asked if they were planning a game that day. When Yossi answered yes and motioned to his team, the cop turned to Rami and apologized curtly before walking away.

  As the teams prepared themselves, Rami explained that, just outside the Damascus Gate, they’d drawn the notice of the cops on duty who’d been suspicious of the additions to their uniforms. In a fit of patriotism, he said with a chuckle, his players had sewn the national flag on their shirts, overruling his own objections. It was these flags that had drawn the cops’ attention and caused them to scrutinize the group more closely. Yossi pointed to his team’s Jewish stars. Both men shrugged and shared a good laugh.

  “They have to beat us with their nationalism,” Ilan grumbled.

  “They have to rub their patriotism in our faces,” Amir muttered.

  “Let’s get started!” the coaches called to their teams.

  Avi watched the game unfolding in slow motion. Dribbling the ball misleadingly, he slid it past his opponent and pushed his way forward. Although he couldn’t quite see Erez, instinct told him he was following behind, at something like a thirty degree angle. That was why, when two defenders closed in, he passed the ball and … Erez received it. Running furiously, Avi plunged past the defensemen, one of whom was charging Erez, and feinted left then right again, to shake his own pursuer off. Meanwhile, Erez had kicked the ball to Chaim, who’d passed it to Erez who, with Avi open, sent it spinning in his direction. Because Avi was set at the wrong angle to receive it, he spun on his left foot, like a dancer pirouetting, stopped his turn and, in a rare and perfect arc of motion, kicked the ball with the side of his foot, his aim and timing beautifully in sync. He didn’t even question whether the ball would reach its target: he knew it would.

  His teammates cheered. He felt lighter than air.

  The Palestinians were silent on their side of the field.

  “It’s like a geometry problem,” Moussa was thinking. A man (A) is 8 metres off from teammate (B) and positioned at a 10 degree angle. A is being charged by 3 Israelis, 2 in front (I and II), the other (III) at a 30 degree angle. If A passes to B, I and II will hem B in, and the goalie (IV) will swing to his left. Boxed in, B will try to pass back to A, but III will intercept and ruin the play. Therefore A must pass to C who is 6 metres back and at a 260 degree angle. A must charge between I and II — who will close in on C — and veer 120 degrees. The ball will come from C and A will pass to B, who will be open as I and II will be distracted by A. IV will veer left, fearing a shot from B. As B receives the ball, A will swing 60 degrees. I and II will be 3 metres behind. IV will be to the left of A. B will pass, A will kick and … success will follow.

  Moussa (A) passed to C (Amir), who quickly passed back to him. He then passed to Sami (B) who, divining his plan, returned the ball as IV moved left to cover the goal. Moussa kicked and … success did follow. His proof was done. QED.

  His teammates cheered. He felt full of fire.

  The Israelis were silent on their side of the field.

  “It wasn’t a foul!” Ilan raged. “Yossi shouldn’t listen to that crap!”

  “They don’t deserve a kick!” Erez complained. “The Arab fell over his own big feet.”

  “I wasn’t even close!” Chaim insisted. “There’s no way I tripped him. And Yossi doesn’t think so. You can tell by his expression.”

  Avi said nothing. He hadn’t seen the error. The problem was the “foul” had occurred inside the box, and would give the Arabs a penalty kick. With two minutes left, and with the score 1–1, the Palestinians could win the game.

  Moussa was standing off to one side. He was quiet and watching events in silence. As soon as he stopped running lethargy set in. He hadn’t seen the so-called foul but Amir seemed so sure of himself.

  “It’s clear to a blind man,” he kept insisting, “the ball was coming to me when that Jew tripped me up.”

  “I saw it. That’s what happened,” Sami agreed. “And Rami saw it too. As usual the Jews won’t play by the rules.”

  “They’ve decided,” Amir said.

  “They’ve decided,” Ilan yelled.

  There was cheering when Rami said they were getting a free shot. “Stop cheering,” he snapped. “They’ll think we’re gloating.”

  There were protests when Yossi announced the other team had won a free kick. “Stop groaning,” he said. “They’ll think we’re poor sports.”

  As the Arabs encouraged their striker and the Israelis encouraged their goalie, Yossi and Rami threw their hands up in despair.

  Amir eyed the goalie with the focus of a sniper. He was big and great at taking penalty shots. He was also confident that he could smash the ball in.

  Yakovi watched Amir and the ball before him. He was small but wiry and lightning fast. He was confident that he could stop the ball.

  Amir charged. He feinted left and Yakovi followed. The ball streaked forward, to Yakovi’s right. He tried to twist mid-flight but was off by a hair.

  The Palestinians cheered.

  The Israelis were silent.

  The Israelis were drinking sodas at the makolet. No one had spoken since they had left the field and the only sound audible was the occasional psst of a can being opened.

  “I know what’s in that hangar,” Erez spoke, motioning to the building across the street from them.

  “What?” Ilan said.

  “It’s where they hide dupes like Yossi who think we’ll one day be at peace with the Arabs.”

  The Palestinians were on Al-Wad Road and enjoying a celebratory soda together. They
were sitting and enjoying their triumph in silence and the only sound audible was the occasional psst of a can being opened.

  “I know what’s behind that doorway,” Mahmoud spoke, motioning to the building across the lane from them.

  “What?” Amir asked.

  “It’s where they stick idealists like Rami who think we’ll one day be at peace with the Jews.”

  Chapter Nine

  MAY 10, 2006 (WEDNDESDAY): 3:45 P.M.

  “We’ll be ready in a moment. I want to check the equipment is working. Testing, testing, one two three.”

  Avi smiled. He was feeling nervous (what else was new). He was sitting in the living room with some juice in hand. Across from him, Phil Matthews was adjusting his recorder. A large man with large hands, a large head, and a large, warm smile, he was interviewing Avi at his dad’s suggestion; he was a freelance journalist for the CBC and had been covering Israel for the last five years. He told Avi that he wasn’t there to embarrass people or to champion one side over the over, but to capture people’s sentiments on a range of issues. Avi could speak freely, he assured him, and if he didn’t like his answers, they wouldn’t be broadcast.

  Shosh was suspicious. Even though Phil Matthews was her husband’s friend, she distrusted journalists as a rule. “Reporters are like vultures,” she liked to say. “They’re always waiting for some corpse to feed on. Either they don’t know our ways or they wilfully distort them to favour the Arabs.”

  “Alright, we’re ready. Ignore the recorder. And don’t tell me what you think I want to hear, but what you yourself sincerely believe. The best interviews are ones where people’s honesty shines through. Okay?”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good. Let’s get started. For the record, you’re Avi Greenbaum, you live in West Jerusalem, and you moved to Israel in 2001.”