by Rose Fox
“What doesn’t he know?” Zaguri answered the question with another question and chuckled.
“About me, for example.” Abigail stated.
“No one knows anything about you. It’s also the first time I’m meeting you, and more’s the pity,” Zaguri complained and flashed the most charming smile he could muster.
Barak spoke:
“Friends, I am going to fix times to meet with each of you individually. Prepare to swap roles, change cover stories, and this is also an opportunity to update you on our change of address.”
“Change of address? Was that planned or is it a consequence of this affair?” Zaguri queried but received no response.
The truth was that from the day they fired the bug into Abigail’s old apartment, the organization had planned to move the base of their activities. Only a day earlier, a third-floor residential apartment without an elevator, at 54 Raines Street in Givatayim was chosen.
The First Glitch
In the late afternoon, Abigail finished another portrait of the members of her family but she wasn’t satisfied. Her desire to recreate the people she had abandoned in the desert in her paintings burned in her bones. Her tubes of oil paint were almost used up, and she only had two more canvasses.
She spread the finished paintings around and leaned them against the wall, stepped back a few paces and studied them again.
Standing in the center of the room, was the large portrait of her mother working at the dark colored taboun on which she laid the flat pita bread, and transparent steam swirled above it. On both sides of the picture, she depicted her sisters and small daughter and Abigail’s eyes welled up with tears. Her excitement communicated itself to the ring on her finger, but Abigail ignored it. She chewed on the handle of the brush, staining her cheeks yellow with the color of the sand she was painting.
She placed the four paintings that dealt with the darkest period of her life in the corner of the living room. The colors that dominated them were dark blue, gray and black. Not even a speck of yellow or orange was to be seen in them. She turned the first painting around to conceal the ones behind it and then went out to buy some more materials.
It was almost evening, and an autumn breeze arose and blew her hair across her cheeks. She progressed slowly along the Tel-Aviv roads and after a few minutes reached the ‘Dizengoff Center' mall and went to an adjacent arts supplies store. There, she purchased tubes of oil paint, two new paintbrushes and a roll of canvas.
When she reached her home, it was already dark outside. As soon as she went inside she looked at the four paintings from the dark time of her life and talked to herself:
“Why hurt yourself? Why not get rid of the paintings or hide them away forever?”
Then a minute later she spread and stretched the canvas over a square wood frame and began a new painting.
Abigail worked hard on the paintings for another two weeks until she had a whole series of portraits around the walls. When she went out and returned to her home, she felt as if all of them were living close to her and that she wasn’t alone.
One day, at the art supplies store, Yardena, the saleslady turned to her and asked
“Who paints?”
“I do,” Abigail laughed.
“Really? I would love to see your work.”
Abigail stared at her and thought of inviting her home, and heard Yardena say:
“I would be happy if you would show us something you have painted even if it is unfinished.”
“Ah, no problem, with pleasure,” Abigail replied. “Do you also paint?”
“Yes, and I also arrange exhibitions for artists, but on the condition that there are enough finished pieces and, of course if they’re worth exhibiting.”
“No, no, no, I’m not interested,” Abigail responded quickly, “and I’m not sure my work is worth exhibiting, but I am prepared to show you my paintings.”
Yardena came to Abigail’s apartment that day and the moment she stood at the entrance, she raised her voice in excitement and slapped her cheek.
“I don’t believe it! Your work is stunning! Where have you been hiding, you naughty little minx?”
She moved slowly, tiptoeing reverently in front of the paintings set against the walls of the living room and could not stop expressing her admiration.
“I notice that the same characters appear more than once. Women, men and a little girl,” she remarked, “and they’re all in a desert landscape, among tents.”
When she stood and looked at the large painting of Abigail’s mother, she was at a loss for words, peered at her attentively and asked casually:
“Where are you from? I don’t recall you even mentioned your name.”
Abigail was embarrassed. She could not decide which name to use, and she swallowed loudly. It was the first time that someone other than people from the organization had cared about her. She thought again and said:
“Naima.”
“Naima? Pleased to meet you, where are you from?”
“From here,” she answered without hesitating.
“From here? So, may I ask, who are these figures you portray?” Abigail recoiled but responded quickly:
“Members of my family.” And she added immediately: “They aren’t all alive anymore.”
“Your family?” Yardena was surprised. She frowned as she peered at Abigail again.
“Look, I am sure that these works are more worthy of greater interest than they are receiving here, at home,” she declared. “I believe I could arrange an exhibition and introduce you to the public.”
“No, no,” Abigail was startled, “absolutely not.”
“Hmm, really?” Yardena replied, “and if, let’s say, I want to purchase one of your paintings? Perhaps, this one,” she said, pointing to the large work in which her mother is seen at the hot taboun.
Yardena linked arms with Abigail and pulled her to stand in front of the pictures and continued enthusing.
“Look at the transparent steam rising from the taboun and the pita. I‘m scared of getting scalded if I touch it. It’s tangible!
She pulled Abigail along the length of the wall and then pointed to one of the paintings and asked:
“That little girl, who appears in several of the paintings – is that you?”
Abigail trembled, and she choked back her tears and the ring sent a current through her finger. She restrained herself from answering Yardena in order not to burst into tears and shook her head.
“She looks like you. But, perhaps it’s a coincidence because the woman, who appears in many of the works, resembles you.”
Abigail agonized at the words she was hearing and wished that Yardena would end her visit and go away.
“How much do you want for this painting?” Yardena inquired. Abigail didn’t even look at which one she was referring to and shook her head vigorously.
“I told you it isn’t for sale.” Abigail raised her voice to almost a scream: “My paintings are not for sale!”
She almost asked her to leave right then but, Yardena was insistent:
“Naima, quote me a price, whatever you want.”
She remained standing in front of the large picture and spoke.
“This work is unique. The woman looks alive, and not painted,”
Abigail maintained her silence and Yardena asked:
“Naima, does this woman exist? Is there someone like her? Is she real?”
At that, Abigail burst into tears and Yardena recoiled momentarily and then embraced her and mumbled:
“I’m very sorry. Oh, I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’ll go away now.
Abigail wiped her cheeks, laughing and crying simultaneously and stared at Yardena as she made her way quietly outside.
When the door closed, Abigail felt as though someone had tried to enter her very soul that day and had harassed and bothered the members of her family on the painted canvasses. She went from picture to picture, caressing each one as if to protest and wipe away the injury and restore
their calm.
Just then, the phone rang and Abigail heard:
“Hey, Naima, can I come up now?”
It was Barak. Less than a minute later he closed the front door and stood in the hall as if nailed to the spot. His gaze wandered around the room as he scanned the pictures, and his mouth dropped open.
“Naima, are you the artist? Are they all your work?”
She nodded in the affirmative as she blushed and smiled. Then, she pulled him by his sleeve to stand in front of the portrait of her mother and daughter but something in the corner of the room drew Barak’s gaze. There the other works stood, hidden from view, one behind the other with an oil-stained cloth thrown over them.
He saw the first picture tucked away behind its partial cover and that was enough for him to understand its subject. It portrayed a man lying on the sand. A deep, bleeding wound in his leg appeared through the tear in his trousers. He made his way to the corner of the room and stood before the row of covered paintings.
“May I?” he requested.
“Ahh, I’m not sure they will be of interest to you,” she claimed. “Leave it, Barak, these four paintings deal with only two years, but the rest of the portraits tell a story of twenty years.”
Barak stood facing the four concealed paintings, raised her chin and gazed into her incredible tear-filled eyes.
“Don’t you want to share with me what you went through during those years?”
She shrugged as the tears threatened to run down her cheeks and sighed out loud.
He turned her around to face him and softly caressed her cheek and wiped away a tear that had fallen there. Abigail paused for another second and then jerked the paint-stained cloth of the paintings, spread them out and stood there in silence.
He stood facing the pictures and pondered on the veracity of the saying that a picture is worth more than a thousand words.
Barak bent down, turned the picture back against the wall and spoke quietly.
“Abigail, my dear, I am the last person who wants to spoil your fun. Nevertheless, you must be aware that if strangers see these pictures, you will be in great danger. Do you hear me?”
Abigail noticed the term of endearment he had used towards her, but she didn’t reprove him. She wondered whether to tell him about Yardena, the owner of the art store, but then he asked:
" Has anyone else seen them?” She nodded. “Only these,” she said and pointed to the paintings of her family in the desert. Barak was horrified and shouted:
“Who saw these pictures? When? What’s the matter with you? How will you be able to hide the fact that you are alive and kicking?”
“Ah, that’s not a problem. The owner of the art supply store came here and asked to purchase this painting.” She pointed to the portrait of her mother beside the hot taboun.
“Is that so?! Why that one, in particular?”
Abigail shrugged,
“But I didn’t agree.” And she added, speaking faintly: “She told me to name my price and was prepared to pay me as much as I wanted.”
Barak did not say another word. He went to a corner of the living room, sat down and regarded the paintings from there. He tapped his lips with his fingers. She was familiar with this habit he had when he worried and she tried to mollify him.
“She didn’t understand it. She thought I was a novice painter, someone who refuses to part with her creations.”
Barak only asked: Where is that store?”
“It’s on Dizengoff Street, near the mall. Yardena arranges exhibitions there and promotes artists; that’s all."
She did not reveal that she had burst into tears when Yardena inquired who the subjects of her paintings were. Suddenly Barak got up, turned the large picture round and looked at the back of it and on the corner of the painting.
“Yes, my dearest, so how will you explain away your signature, especially since we unveiled a tombstone on your grave before the date noted here?”
“Come on! I encoded my signature.
“Naima, you’re playing it too smart and tempting fate and you know which of you determines the outcome and who will win.”
Just then, Abigail’s phone rang and she opened her eyes wide in surprise when she heard Yardena’s voice.
“Hi Naima, I talked to my husband and he wants to come and…"
“No, no, you can’t.”
“Wait, Naima, listen to me,” Yardena implored, "Not to buy, just to look at the paintings and perhaps we can pay for permission to photograph them.”
Abigail inhaled deeply, quickly ended the conversation with a quick click of her fingers and looked up at Barak.
“You were right, she’s not giving up."
Barak, who was busy counting the works, looked at her with an absentminded expression and made a call.
“Get here with a van, you have to load some artwork.” Just as he was about to end the conversation, he added: “Bring a blanket or a large piece of fabric to wrap thirteen big pictures.”
Barak's visit had an entirely different purpose. He intended to prepare her next assignment and stage a lookout from her new home into her previous apartment, into which someone had fired a bug about five months earlier. Now, as they waited, he turned to her:
“How do you say ‘I’m ready to leave’ in Persian?” She said a few words and then laughed.
“Why did you laugh?”
“Because I said something slightly different.”
“It’s a pity. I should have brought someone, who speaks Persian with me so you couldn’t bluff me.”
“There’s no need, I just said: ‘Who told you that I’m at all prepared to leave’?”
He stared at her in silence, tapping his fingers on his lips.
Khalil arrived a few minutes later and in the ensuing half hour, loaded all the paintings on his ample shoulders. He did not look at any of them and just busied himself with binding them. Abigail followed his movements expressionlessly and found it painful to watch how he was wrapping her pictures and taking them out of the apartment. Then, she ran to her room and closed the door.
She only came out into the living room when she heard the front door close. Staring at the naked walls, she felt abandoned. A chill ran through her heart, and she clung to the wall and passed her hand over the places the paintings had previously occupied.
Without thinking and, as if possessed, Abigail pulled out a fresh canvass and nailed it to a new wooden frame. She banged the nails so hard that they sank into the wood and disappeared, leaving holes in the stretched fabric. That very day, a new painting began coming to life on the canvas.
She recreated all the members of her family but, this time, they were sitting in a half-circle in the tent. She placed her mother on a cushion and all the others on a light-colored mat in various poses. When she looked up at the clock, she saw that it was one o’clock in the morning. She yawned and left the brushes in the glass of turpentine, but didn’t clean the paint-stained palette as was her custom at the end of a workday. She fell into bed, exhausted.
She continued working on the painting the following day; this time paying attention to the background. Through the opening in the tent, she added the white camel cow and the huge palm. Only on the third day, she filled in the yellow sands and dunes of the Negev, and when she completed the painting, she spoke out loud to the figures:
“Now, you are all gathered together; I will take you with me everywhere I go.”
She left the painting attached to its frame for a few more days, and then removed it from the frame, rolled the canvas into a narrow cylinder and pushed it between her personal belongings. An hour later, she pulled the tube out, opened the canvass again and studied the characters. This time, without understanding that she was making the mistake of her life, she turned the painting over onto its other side and, using a black marker, signed it and added a date. After a short thinking added in a very small letters the signature and the date, on the corner of this painting.
Abigail Ben Nun
31st August 2014
What she forgot was that her funeral had taken place five months earlier.
*
Karma Öcalan
Clouds of artillery smoke and the sharp smell of gun powder still hung in the air. Abdul made his way through the field; marching between the many corpses and his eyes were tearing from the smoke.
He gazed downwards and examined the ground he was walking on, carefully striding so as not to step on the bodies that lay on the sand. Some were mangled beyond recognition and others were covered with sand and dust.
The fresher corpses of recent casualties were piled on top of the older ones. They had lain in the sand for so many days that even the sun and the heat no longer spread the odor of their decomposition. They had been there so long that they had mingled with the surrounding ancient landscape as if there was already an inseparable part of the rocks.
Abdul gazed around and understood that these dead people become part of the earth on which they were killed and that no one will ever search for them or claim them. They are people, who have been wiped out, who will never receive a proper burial or have a tombstone mark their resting place with their name.
He pondered for a second whether this would also be his fate. He could not have guessed how right he was.
Abdul was a member of the Kurdish underground, who lived in Turkey. His heart had grown numb to the horrors, and the sight of the carnage beneath his feet did not affect his pace, but he was careful to respect the dignity of the bodies. Every piece of fabric or dusty rag signified another corpse, and he took care to walk around them.
The truth was that, like many others before him, he had already come to terms with the fact so many people had died in their attempts to achieve Kurdish independence. He had no doubt that thousands more would die. He knew there was no other way, nor would there ever be. Since all who opposed the Turkish or Iraqi army shared a common fate - to be killed or die, and there was no option of capture or imprisonment.
Even the army they were fighting against preferred its soldiers to die rather than, God forbid, be taken prisoner by the Kurdish fighters. In the view of the military, unnecessary death was much more honorable than surrender or capture by the Kurdish Underground. That was the reason no one cared about these slaughtered Kurds, who lay here under the Turkish sun.
