Crescent Star

by Nicholas Maes

  “You haven’t touched your eggs,” Dan said. He was carrying his gun, cap, and knapsack and was ready to take his place in the ranks. Avi smiled and stood up from the table, intending to escort his brother outside, to the street, to his barracks, to the battlefield even.

  “I’m off,” Dan said. “And here’s what I expect. When Ima gets back from work, set her mind at ease — we’re men and they’re expecting us to show no fear. That’s your main priority. And carry on as normal. One day soon you’ll be in my position, and in the mean time you should enjoy your routines. It will comfort me to know you’re safe and happy. Can you do this?”

  Avi nodded. He wasn’t scared … he wasn’t, but he was fighting desperately to contain his tears.

  “Good. Don’t use up all my aftershave when you see Zohara.” With his free hand he grabbed Avi and squeezed. That was more than Avi could bear. For five, ten seconds the Greenbaum boys embraced, then Dan broke loose and stepped outside. Avi heard him call to a neighbour: figuring that he was off to war, she wished him luck and a safe return. His footsteps faded. The only sign he’d been there earlier was his plate at the table and the smell of cigarettes.

  Avi took a seat in Dan’s chair. The apartment was silent; as silent as a tomb. It would take him a good hour at least before he could tear himself from this last contact with his brother.

  Moussa was hurrying to the family stall. He’d studied fractals till late the night before and had only woken up at ten that morning. He’d kicked himself because there was stuff to deliver and his brother would be waiting for him to show up.

  As he moved along Al-Wad Road, he passed a few people talking in serious tones. He smiled at the ones he knew but they didn’t seem to notice. Only a cat glanced his way: as he drew near, it dropped some scraps and darted into a half-open doorway.

  On either side of the family stall, knots of men were locked in discussion. Their voices were raised and they were gesturing impatiently. He instinctively knew that something grave had happened, even graver than the events in Gaza. He sprinted the remaining distance to the stall.

  “What’s happening?” he asked Ahmed, who was sorting through bags and getting orders ready. His movements were unusually calm and Moussa knew he must be angry.

  “You were up till late,” Ahmed observed, “What were you doing at 2:00 a.m.? I got up for water and saw your light was still on.”

  “I was reading math. But tell me: what’s going on?”

  “It’s Hezbollah,” Mustafa cried, overhearing Moussa’s question. “They attacked the Israelis earlier and killed three soldiers and snatched two others. A tank rolled after them but it hit a mine. Imagine that! Hezbollah smashed one of their tanks!”

  Others started commenting too: how they didn’t really like Hezbollah but they were tough and committed and would burn the Jews’ fingers, a fitting price for what was happening in Gaza. Two young men said they yearned to travel North, to help in the campaign against the Israelis, but the roads were hopelessly blocked. Someone said they should riot in Jerusalem and spread the unrest to the West Bank, too, to distract the Jews further and dilute their forces. Someone was singing “Baladi, Baladi” and waving a miniature flag.

  But there were other voices, more realistic ones. One man had lots of relatives up North: would they be hit by Hezbollah’s missiles? Tourists would stay away all summer and business would suffer as a result: how were merchants going to make it through the winter? The cost of food would mount, and the police might stop them from moving about freely, and riots would ensue, which would lead to violence, and violence to grieving, and grieving to more violence. On and on the cycle would run, and Hezbollah was only making it spin more quickly. Yes, they were tired of living like mice, but do mice band together and tell the cat what to do? What would they win, that was the question. It was all too clear what they were going to lose.

  Bit by bit the merchants moved off. Some wore exulted looks, but most seemed worried, as their anger ate at them from deep within.

  Moussa stepped inside the stall. Ahmed was readying the orders still and stacking a barrow with goods to deliver. The next few minutes passed in silence and, solely to divert himself, Moussa picked at some sunflower seeds. He could imagine the situation up in Lebanon; it was much like the one over in Gaza: blasts, screams, shots, blood, and lots and lots of people grieving. And how was he responding? What would he do through the length of this crisis? He would wander the streets of the Muslim Quarter, delivering sacks of rice and beans. And when this chore was finished, he would make his way home, he would eat in safety, bathe in safety, study, read, and relax in safety, when hell was breaking loose around him.

  There was anger in him now, lots of it, and he was glad it surfaced so easily. But what was he supposed to do? What all men do, but what was that?

  “What do we do now?” he asked, thrusting aside the sunflowers seeds.

  “I will have the barrow ready in a moment,” Ahmed answered, glancing up from his store of supplies.

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m referring to our helplessness. Ab is in prison. They’ll come to search our store before long. We’re losing in Gaza. We’ll lose in Lebanon. I wish, I wish I could somehow act. I wish there was something I could do to help, without strapping a bomb to my chest.”

  Ahmed stood, stepped over the sacks and sat on an old, sweat-stained chair. He motioned Moussa to sit on a second, creaky stool.

  “My preference would be to act as well,” he said, helping himself to some roasted almonds. “But I’m not very good at violence, nor do I see the profit it brings. What is Gaza like just now? It is without power and lights and drinking water. The inhabitants are cowering or wandering in a daze, unless they’re firing on the Israelis. A hopeless effort but I wish them well. There is nothing gained, that’s what I’m saying. This violence will have no positive effect.”

  “So what do we do?” Moussa cried, rejecting the almonds his brother pushed towards him. “I can’t just sit and let my anger devour me.”

  “I can’t answer for everyone. I can only say what I’ve decided for myself. Our family has been here for generations. Many Shakirs have sat in this stall and done exactly what I do now. I feel their presence and will never leave this place. To the extent that it is possible, I will pass all my days here, opening this stall in summer and winter, and serving every passerby: Arabs, Jews, Christians, tourists. When the police arrive to inspect my papers, I will never give them a reason to expel me, but will smile and cooperate and offer them almonds. And every time our neighbours see me, they will think of me as a familiar landmark, a tree whose roots are sunk so deep that it is impossible to move even one of its branches. And my children will do the same, and their children too.

  “We are very good at lingering, we Palestinians. The Jew has had a history of wandering, of clinging to his faith as he was driven about. That was his peculiar genius. Our genius is outlasting those who have entered this land, or, at least absorbing them into our midst. We are flowing with the blood of Egyptians and Greeks and Samaritans and Nabataeans, and other ancient tribes as well. And so, as the Jew passes my stall, he should know that he can’t keep us at bay forever, any more than you can defeat the sea with towering walls of brick and concrete. And if they do drive us out, we will wait on the periphery, applying steady pressure through our yearning and numbers. We have been mistreated by many nations; many, indeed, have been much crueler than the Jews. But always we return, in one form or another. This is our talent and it is from this talent that our victory will emerge.”

  As Moussa listened, he gradually grew calmer. He was starting to see his brother in a different light. While Ahmed had no stomach for heroics, firing guns, or dying in a blaze of glory, there was a quiet power to him. And maybe his vision was the one to follow. While Hamas would live and die by the sword, his brother’s steadiness would last forever, would force the enemy to come to
terms or cast them into obscurity over many generations, the way the sea or desert always claimed its due.

  Without a word, Moussa kissed his brother. He then stood and set his hands on the barrow. War or not, there were deliveries to be made.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The day would be a scorcher. It wasn’t yet 11:00 a.m. and Avi was soaked with sweat; and they hadn’t even started the match. His team was heading to the nearby field where Yossi had told them to meet. He’d met Rami in a nearby café to determine if a final game was worth it. They’d decided it was, so Yossi contacted Avi who in turn had been in touch with the team. No one was eager and who could blame them? Still, they’d gathered at their favourite makolet and from there were plodding to the soccer field.

  Far from improving, things were getting worse. Hezbollah had been firing missiles by the thousands. While Israeli casualties were low, the North had been evacuated. Citizens were streaming from dozens of towns, Haifa had been emptied — the city was a shadow of itself. The Israelis had been busy with their planes. The IAF had knocked out power in south Lebanon, and destroyed a variety of launching sites and dozens of buildings being used by Hezbollah. According to reports, there were lots and lots of casualties, not just fighters but civilians too. At the same time troops were assembling in the North and preparing to make their way across the border, to stem the flow of rockets that were hitting Jewish soil.

  The team walked in silence. Avi wasn’t the only one with family involved. Ilan’s father had been called North also, Erez’s brother was over in Gaza, and Shimshon had family living in Haifa who’d been given the order to leave their homes. Everyone was watching the news, and got truly frightened when the phone started ringing. People were trying to go about their business — Shosh was going into work for example — but they were apprehensive and ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

  “Those goddamn Arabs,” Ilan said. “We cleared out of Lebanon. What more do they want?”

  “It’s the same in Gaza,” Erez snarled. “We left the area and removed our settlers. What thanks did we get? Missiles and more missiles!”

  “We were crazy to leave!” Shimshon agreed. “We should have known they would use our weakness against us!”

  “My dad always says there’s one answer,” Ilan growled. “An M-16 that’s locked and loaded. If the Arabs sense weakness, they’ll cut your throat!”

  The group continued to talk this way as they marched towards the soccer field. With every step, the sun grew fiercer and more and more of their restraint dissolved. At one point they passed an old, empty lot: junk lay strewn amidst its dried out weeds, wooden planks, broken tiles, rusty pipes, and an old, smashed radio. Without a word Ilan swerved into this field and helped himself to a length of pipe. He swung it and smiled as it whistled through the air. Erez, Shimshon, and the others followed suit, arming themselves with planks and tiles and anything that might serve them well in a fight. Not to be outdone, Avi grabbed the radio. He pulled out its antenna and snapped it off: it was three feet long and vicious-looking. He whipped the air a couple of times: it would leave a lasting mark on his aggressors.

  Equipped for a showdown, they headed towards the field again. Their movements seemed synchronized and they could have been mistaken, at a glance, for soldiers.

  There wasn’t a single word exchanged. The time for talk was over and something else would take place.

  Amir stumbled as he crossed Ha Tzanhanim, en route for the field where the Israelis were waiting. He bumped into Mohammed who collided with Abdul, provoking curses through the chain of players. Someone told Mahmoud to watch his feet, and Mahmoud answered with an insult of his own. Fists might have flown but Amir told them to pipe down. They shouldn’t waste their anger; they should save it for the Jews.

  The mood was heated. While all of them were delighted that Haifa had been hit, Gaza was still suffering and Arab towns were under fire. Abdul had relatives in al Shaykh Danun, a village five kilometres east of Nahariya. His aunt had told him that a house had been struck and a six-year-old boy had been severely injured. And Mahmoud’s family on the outskirts of Tiberias had seen rockets explode in the nearby hills. It was like Hezbollah couldn’t tell their friends and enemies apart.

  The Palestinians were scared that the Jews would fire all their workers, the Arab ones at least. Over time they would block the roads and isolate towns and prevent people from moving, leading to shortages and a loss of wages. People in the area were starting to hoard.

  “It’s stupid to be playing,” Amir grumbled. “The game is supposed to lead to peace, but look at the Jews. They’re masters of violence.”

  “They bombed five buildings today,” Abdul chimed in. “Then they trucked milk and rice into the region, as if hoping that food will bring the dead back to life.”

  “I hope Hezbollah kicks their ass,” Amir said, “and teaches them the meaning of death.”

  “We got a note about my brother,” Mahmoud cried. “They’re putting him in prison for at least two years, because he punched a soldier who was pushing him around.”

  They continued speaking as they muscled forward, every statement adding fuel to their rage. Amir said they had to do something; he repeated this over and over again. When they wandered by a construction site, he plunged straight into it and rummaged about. Planks and rods were strewn all over, as well as piles and piles of stones. Amir filled his pockets with these, then hefted a solid-looking two-by-four. Impressed by his example, the others wandered around the lot and armed themselves with an array of weapons; Moussa found a hammer some worker had forgotten. It had a rubber grip and its heavy mass was reassuring. These tools, if incautiously handled, could cause serious damage. But that was the point: they wanted to cause harm. Harm was good. Harm was holy. They would beat the Jews until their bones cracked open and they begged for mercy and dyed the earth red.

  Girded for battle, they hurried forward, their expressions as hard as the stones in their pockets.

  The sun was bright and searingly hot. The cat was growling in satisfaction. In a dumpster just beside a field it had stumbled on a chicken leg, thick with meat and grease and fat. It had dragged this haul into the middle of the field, to prevent a rival from muscling in, where it was ripping off large chunks of flesh and bolting them fiercely. It had managed five large mouthfuls already and it wasn’t even halfway through, a good thing too as the Siamese was starving.

  The cat was startled by a movement to its right. Jumping just in time, it dodged a stone from out of nowhere.

  There were shouts of rage and more stones fell. Humans were advancing on both sides. They were running hard and brandishing sticks and practically tearing the air with their screams. The cat looked long and hard at the meat. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t every day such food came along and now they wanted to take it away. Should it seize the bone and scamper off, or try to grab a mouthful more? Another stone went whistling by. The thickset humans were lumbering closer.

  Growling bitterly it took to its heels. An instant later the humans came running, gasping and shouting and still throwing stones. The two groups were dangerously close and each human was facing a chosen opponent. All of them were about to pounce — the cat was a fighter and could sense these things — when two deep voices brought them to a stop.

  Two more humans had arrived on the scene. They were bigger and older than everyone else, and the white one’s arm was wounded. They were angry with the smaller ones, and yet (was it the cat’s imagination) they were scared of them, too. Each was trying to lead his group away, by threatening them, yes, but by cajoling them too — this was the sort of trick a big weak cat will practise on its juniors.

  The Siamese perked up its ears. The groups were moving off. They weren’t shouting now and their sticks had been lowered. So maybe it could fetch that meat after all…!

  One of the humans slipped on the chicken! He hadn�
�t watched where he was stepping and the meat was slippery with delicious grease and fat and he had skidded on it and crashed to the ground.

  The other group was making noises. It was a terrible sound — ha ha ha —and the cat could tell they were sounding a challenge. Sure enough, their rivals were turning. There were yells again. Both sides were grimacing and charging now. The bigger ones were intervening but … something hit the wounded one. He stooped forward, his hands on his skull. His big friend was helping him but … he was struck as well.

  The cat licked its lips.

  The others were fighting. The cat liked fighting. There were gasps and groans and snarls of fury. Their heavy limbs were everywhere and they were on each other and hitting and kicking. A few were swinging objects. Some were losing blood and screaming in pain, or maddened fury. One was down and didn’t seem to be moving. Another.… A stone sailed close and sent the cat running.

  It stopped when it reached the old stone tower. Cowering in its doorway it was studying two more humans. One was holding a rusted hammer, the other a shiny metal stick. They were facing each other and practically spitting. Each one’s face was difficult to read. It could have been distorted with rage but there might have been something else as well. Something only humans have. But if that were so why were they confronting each other? Why was one swinging his hammer about, while the other kept whipping and whipping the air? They weren’t friends. The rest were fighting. It was up to them to fight as well.

  And they knew it. They knew that they should be fighting. And they intended to, the cat could see. That’s why they weren’t backing off. They weren’t closing in but they weren’t backing off. And each kept shaking and swinging his weapon and screaming to work his bloodlust up. Their faces were hard. Beneath that surface softness they were stone cold hard. When would they fight? Go on, fight! the Siamese growled.