Crescent Star

by Nicholas Maes

  Yet still he felt as hollow as an abandoned tomb.

  “I’m saying we have lots to atone for, that’s all.”

  Zohara sipped her coffee. She and Avi were in a café down on Hillel Street. They had finished rehearsing early that day and decided to go out for coffee at last. Whereas Avi had wanted to discuss their trip to England, Zohara had been focusing on Nakba Day. As they strolled together, she had rambled on about the expulsion of Arabs and the stolen houses and Deir Yassin. When they’d reached the café and ordered coffee, Avi had proposed they split a piece of pastry. No, she’d snapped. She was avoiding sweets to mark the day. And while drinking her coffee — black of course — she’d kept saying how disastrous the war in ’48 had proven.

  “It would have been better had we lost,” she said, sipping her coffee. She grimaced at its bitter taste.

  Avi eyed her closely. Despite the gruelling temperature outside, she looked cool as ice cream and self-possessed. She was wearing a green shirt that was freshly pressed and tucked into a graceful cotton skirt. She wore no makeup, no jewellery, and no adornments, with the exception of her sunglasses whose lenses were a bright shade of yellow. Her eyes were sensitive to the light, she explained, and without such lenses she couldn’t go outside.

  “That war marked our original sin and from it all our crimes have emerged.”

  Avi sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for politics. On the other hand, he felt she had gone too far and he didn’t want her inferring from his silence that he in any way agreed with her.

  “What about the invasion?” he asked. “It isn’t worthwhile mentioning?”

  “The invasion?”

  “You know what I mean. You think it’s nothing that, after the partition plan, five armies gathered with a view to destroy us — in violation of international opinion? What would have happened if the Arabs had defeated us? Do you think they would have shared the land or drowned us in the sea?”

  “You’re arguing that survival always comes first. I’m saying it doesn’t, not at the expense of a Deir Yassin.”

  “It was terrible, I agree. But it’s not like anyone says otherwise. Our government even apologized at the time and promised such a massacre wouldn’t happen again.”

  “And that’s why they expelled over half the country’s Arabs?”

  Again Avi sighed. He knew this history well. Their teacher, Shulamit, had covered this subject in detail and never once substituted myths for facts. She had exposed the class to accounts from both sides, they had combed through statistics and watched several films, including one about Deir Yassin. And several veterans had addressed the class, talking about how proud they’d been to fight in the campaign, while acknowledging the hardships of war. One seasoned old man had started to cry when he’d recalled the death of his younger brother: he’d promised his mother he would protect him from harm. “Why did they have to attack us?” he’d lamented.

  In other words, Avi could easily have argued with Zohara. He could have said, for example, that there were Palestinians who’d helped the invading forces, while others had freely vacated their homes so the Arab armies could target Jews directly without worrying that their fellow Arabs would get caught in the fire. All right, it was questionable that the Jews had expelled lots of innocent Arabs, ones who’d been careful to steer clear of the conflict, but the times had been desperate: it had only been three years since the Nazi nightmare had ended, and the Jews had felt, with ample reason, that they could either fight or face liquidation.

  They had done what men must do.

  But he kept his mouth shut: he’d learned from watching his family debate that there was no hope of changing people’s opinions. He and Zohara could argue for hours, but she would still feel that the Jews had been wrong, and he would still think she was overreacting.

  He was silent for a second reason. The café was a spacious room. It was fairly crowded for that time of day and, among the customers, was a strange-looking man. He was sitting by himself in a corner, and wasn’t drinking coffee or eating any pastry. He was dark-complexioned and had neutral features; he might have been Jewish, he might have been Muslim. An oversized briefcase lay at his feet, and he was dressed in a coat that was buttoned to his neck. Every ten seconds he checked his watch.

  “You’re not listening,” Zohara said with a smile. “Does that mean you’re not interested or are you signaling defeat?”

  “Look at that guy. Does he seem a little nervous? No, don’t stare at him.”

  “The one in the corner? He looks normal enough…. No, he does seem nervous. And he could be Jewish or….”

  “He’s lifting his briefcase.”

  “It seems heavy by the looks of it. What’s inside?”

  “He’s sweating too. And his jacket’s fully buttoned. I don’t like this.”

  “I don’t either. He really is creepy. Should we tell the waiter…?”

  “It’s Nakba Day. You know what that means?”

  “He’s out to make some gesture maybe. They warned as much on the radio. Look — he consulted his watch again.”

  “We should phone someone.… Or maybe we should leave.”

  Avi was sweating and Zohara no longer look so cool. Should they throw some money on the table and go? But what about the others? They might pay a price. They could phone someone, but that might draw his attention. Unless Avi suddenly rushed the creep. If he were quick enough, he could knock him out or maybe pin his arms. But the guy was big and could fend him off. And, besides, it wouldn’t work. He could feel his fear eroding his muscles, wearing away at the Israeli within.

  “He’s reaching in his pocket.” Zohara could barely breath. “He’s got his cellphone out. But … he’s holding it.”

  “Maybe it’s a detonator.”

  “Okay. Look. Let’s just leave. I’ll put fifty shekels down and we’ll both walk out. Are you ready?”

  “I’m not sure….”

  “I want to go. On the count of three….”

  She dropped a fifty shekel note on the table and climbed to her feet. When Avi remained seated, she grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him upwards. The two of them made their way to the exit. With every step, Avi dreaded the worst, certain he would hear a click, a thunderous roar, then nothing at all. As they were crossing the threshold, someone else stepped inside, a twenty-year-old man with shocking red hair. Avi thought he should warn this person, but the guy was in too much of a hurry.

  Once outside Avi wanted to run. He wanted to get far away from the place and track a policeman down, someone who could do what real men do. But he didn’t know the name of the place. As his eyes searched the store for a sign, he got a look inside. The redhead was sitting with the creepy guy and gesturing in a way that suggested he was sorry. Avi and Zohara paused. The suspected bomber had lifted the bag and was placing it with the cellphone in the young man’s lap. The bag was open and packed with books. The top ones were covered in Hebrew writing.

  Zohara was looking at the waiter now. He had approached their table and pocketed her money. He was smiling in triumph and who could blame him? She had overpaid by forty shekels.

  Avi looked at her and was just about to make a joke. It really was funny how they’d overreacted, never mind the guy had fit the terrorist’s profile. But Zohara was angry and walking away. It could have been the fact that she’d wasted so much money, but Avi suspected it was something else: she resented the ease with which her suspicions had been triggered, despite her “universal” point of view. Or she’d sensed something in Avi that had turned her off; or, rather, she had failed to detect the right sort of stuff.

  Either way, it was too bad. He’d just been getting used to her smile.

  Chapter Eleven

  Olympic Airways flight 512, destination Athens, Greece, is beginning to board at gate 54. Passengers are asked to have their documen
ts ready.

  Hearing this departure announcement, Moussa felt his spirits soar. Was there anything as exciting as a major airport? If he went upstairs to the departure hall, he would enter a corridor with multiple gates and each could take him halfway across the world, to New York, Athens, Cairo, Tokyo, Singapore, Ottawa, London, Paris, places where you weren’t expected to be angry and men could spend their days studying mathematics. Life here was just one possibility among thousands.

  This is the final call for Lufthansa Flight 105 for Frankfurt, Germany. Passengers are requested to board at gate 32 and to have their documents ready for inspection.

  “Is there anything more exciting than an airport?” Ahmed asked.

  Moussa had to laugh: he wasn’t the only one who felt this way! Together he and Ahmed studied the airport with ill-concealed looks of admiration. They were standing in a spacious hall whose walls and arches were made of Jerusalem stone and whose tiled floors were blindingly bright. In the lobby’s center was an imposing skylight that housed an ingenious fountain: the water seemed to fall from out of nowhere. And scattered around the enormous space were benches, tables, and padded armchairs, along with plants and other decorations. Electronic panels screened the arrival and departure times: there were dozens of flights coming and going. It was a lovely space, large enough to hold vast crowds, yet comfortable and charming to stroll in.

  “What I like best about airports,” Ahmed observed, “is not just the planes taking off, but people’s frame of mind. Everyone is at his best in such a building. They are either leaving home and excited to be flying; or they’re returning from some place and can’t wait to see their family.”

  As if to illustrate this point, a man emerged from a doorway, pushing a cart that was crammed with baggage. He looked tired and unshaven and a little confused; but his face glowed when he spied a boy run towards him, ahead of a woman and other children. The man looked like he was ready to explode with joy.

  United Airways Flight 517 to Washington is now boarding at Gate 37A. Passengers are requested to have all documents in hand.

  “Will Douad be happy to be back, you think?” Moussa asked. “On the phone he said Canada was the Garden of Eden.”

  “Weddings are always happy occasions. And while Douad is happy in Canada, he knows his place is here.”

  “I’m not so sure he would agree with you.”

  “We’ll find out soon,” Ahmed observed, motioning to the arrivals screen. Flight AC 846, Douad’s flight number, was flashing. The plane had landed safely.

  “We just have time to buy some candies,” Ahmed continued. “They’ll guarantee his visit goes sweetly.”

  “Dad’s flight has arrived. I can’t believe it’s on time.”

  Avi followed Rachel’s pointing finger and, sure enough, the arrival screen showed that flight AC 846 had landed safely. He felt a rush of excitement. Soon his dad would emerge from a doorway, an oddly familiar and comforting sight even if he hadn’t seen him in ages. As always happened when he thought about his father, a hundred images came to mind: his dad singing as he piloted the car, dealing cards in a tent while camping, skating with the family at Nathan Phillips Square, napping on a couch, and cutting the lawn. There were less pleasant pictures, too, of him wanting to leave Israel, packing his bags, and disappearing.

  “When was he last here?” Rachel asked.

  “He came last September, for Rosh Hashanah.”

  “That’s right. I don’t like that we see so little of him.”

  “You don’t think he’ll try to live here again? Like, in ten years maybe, when he’s ready to retire?”

  “Dan would say yes. He still thinks dad went back so he could pay our bills and that his heart is really with us. But it isn’t that simple.”

  “No. Probably not.”

  “Israel isn’t for everyone. Dad has his strengths, but he’s missing what it takes to survive over here.”

  “What does it take to survive?” As if he didn’t know.

  “A number of things,” she replied. “But I clued into the important one soon after we arrived. Do you remember that dog?”

  “How could I forget?” Avi was blushing. They had been living in a well-heeled neighbourhood, in a six-story building with a spacious courtyard. He’d been playing in this courtyard by himself one morning when a large German shepherd appeared without warning. The dog growled and bared its teeth. He had tried to escape to the building’s entrance, but the dog blocked him and continued barking. He yelled for his parents because their unit faced the courtyard, and his dad had heard him and rushed downstairs. He not only confronted the dog but, discovering it belonged to the building’s landlord, asked the guy angrily how he could leave this drooling brute unleashed.

  “I heard dad yell at the landlord,” she went on. “But the guy didn’t apologize or even bat an eyelid. Instead he said the sooner you faced your fears, the sooner you’d fit into the country’s fabric. ‘We can’t be afraid in Israel,’ he said. And the more I think about it, the more I agree. And dad agreed too. That’s why he decided to leave.”

  Avi nodded. He had nothing to say. Once again, he was hearing that men had to step up; either that or they should think about moving elsewhere. As his sister continued to scan for their father, he glanced up at the electronic screens. There were planes departing for Athens, Paris, London, Rome, New York City, Rio de Janeiro. He could always leave, if he so saw fit. If he couldn’t meet the general standard, there were other places where he could blend in well.

  He’d keep it in mind. Although the prospect of running off was hardly reassuring.

  “Was he on board?”

  “Of course. He would have called otherwise.”

  “But it’s been an hour since the plane touched down.”

  Moussa could see that his brother was anxious. He was no longer pointing out the airport’s features and explaining how the skylight and fountain fit beautifully together. He was imagining the worst. He was thinking Douad had been stopped by the authorities and was seated in a backroom and being asked all sorts of questions. “Are you the son of Tariq Shakir? Who’s your boss in Hamas? Who’re you working for in Islamic Jihad?” The announcements and screen updates, far from stirring his excitement, had him on the verge of screaming in frustration.

  “Where is he?” he asked again. “Everyone is gone. The cops must be holding him in detention.”

  “They’re waiting too,” Moussa said, pointing to two people further down the hall, a brother and sister by the looks of it. The male looked familiar somehow.

  “It’s a good thing I have the name of our lawyer. But it’ll do no good if they’ve tossed him in jail, the sons of bitches.”

  “It’s been only half an hour.”

  “It takes a minute to arrest a man and change his life forever! Maybe I should speak to someone.”

  “He’ll come out. You’ll see.”

  “You have to shake a tree to get the fruit! You were born in this country and you still don’t know that…?”

  “There. What did I tell you?”

  Moussa pointed down the hallway where a door had opened and a man had emerged.

  “Alhamdulilah,” Ahmed said, his voice cracking with relief. “Douad! Over here!”

  Spotting them, the figure ran forward, a smile splitting his face in two. Ahmed ran to him, followed by Moussa. It was strange. He’d expected Douad to look older but, if anything, he seemed younger and much less careworn. All three brothers embraced simultaneously.

  “You call that luggage? One small suitcase?”

  “I’m not here long. And I assumed if I traveled lightly, the customs guards would speed me along. But they were more suspicious than ever. You wouldn’t believe how closely they checked my papers and how carefully they searched every hollow in my suitcase. I see nothing’s changed…. Hey!” />
  He laughed as Ahmed showered Douad with candies. Some people in the vicinity applauded. When the candies stopped flowing, the brothers hugged again.

  “Come on,” Ahmed urged, retrieving the candies from the floor. “We have a long ride back. The next bus leaves in fifteen minutes. You can tell us everything as soon as we’re seated.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Douad said. “Except that Canada’s the Promised Land.”

  The trio headed to the airport’s exit, laughing and swapping the latest news. As they neared the door that led to the bus ramps, they passed a group of soldiers who were drinking cans of soda. They were carrying M-16s and sported red berets: Golani. For an instant Douad fell deathly silent, surprised by the familiar sight he hadn’t seen in ages. But he caught himself and started joking again.

  As everyone waited for the bus to arrive, he was careful to keep his bag between himself and the soldiers.

  “Where is he?” Avi moaned, “It’s taking forever.”

  “He’ll be out soon. He fell into the clutches of a bureaucrat, that’s all.”

  “Those other people met their guy,” Avi said, motioning to Moussa and his brothers at a distance. He thought he’d met the younger one once but was too distracted to figure out where. “So what on earth is keeping him?”

  “He’s using his Canadian passport, I’ll bet. He always hated his Israeli one. He said it was like wearing a target on your heart. Knowing him, he’s thrown it away. Anything to keep strangers from suspecting he might be an Israeli, God forbid.”

  “Can they penalize him for that? Or keep him overnight? Maybe we should say something…?”

  “There he is!” his sister cried. “Abba! Over here!”

  Avi glanced to his right and … his dad was visible. He was hauling a suitcase on wheels behind him and was clutching onto a mass of papers. His eyes were ringed and he had a five o’clock shadow, but he was smiling widely and was a welcome sight. And despite his fatigue, he looked healthy, happy and free of worries. Avi felt his spirits soar. As always happened when his dad appeared, he appreciated just how much he’d missed him. Like Rachel, he was racing forward. Seconds later, all three Greenbaums were embracing.