by Ellis Shuman
“Ah, here he is,” Shoshanna said, introducing her husband.
“Dobra vecher,” Avraham said, offering his “good evening” greeting in Bulgarian.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Boyko said, sticking to English. “Ayala has told me so much about you.”
Ayala gave Boyko a questioning look, but her parents barely noticed. They escorted their guest to the living room.
“I lived in Sofia until the age of 6. My family lived near the Sofia Synagogue. The name of our street was Ulitza Bacho Kiro. Do you know it?”
“No. Although my job is in Sofia, I am more familiar with Burgas, which is on the other side of the country.”
“Yes, I know where Burgas is.”
“Burgas is where that bombing was!” Ayala’s mother exclaimed. “Such a terrible thing, and to happen in Bulgaria of all places!”
“That is true,” Boyko replied, casting a quick glance at Ayala.
“You have arrived just in time for candle lighting. Did Ayala tell you about the customs of our Shabbat?”
“Shabbat? Oh, you mean the Sabbath?”
“We welcome Shabbat by blessing the candles,” Shoshanna explained. She placed two thin candles into golden candlesticks, lit them, waved her hands in front of her face, and covered her eyes. After reciting the Hebrew blessing, she paused for a moment of personal reflection and then smiled at her family and their guest.
“Shabbat shalom!”
“My Bulgarian has gotten a bit rusty over the years,” Avraham said, his face animated as he led Boyko to the dinner table. “I need to practice the language and you can correct my mistakes!”
“Sure,” Boyko said. He glanced at Ayala, who was blushing at her father’s statement.
“You sit here,” Shoshanna instructed. “But first, we stand for the bracha, for the blessing.”
“We say a blessing over the wine, and a blessing over the bread,” Avraham proudly informed his guest. “This is our Friday night custom to welcome the Shabbat. Ayala, give Boyko a kippa.”
“We’re not very religious,” Ayala said, almost as an apology. “Most of this ceremony is being done for your sake.”
“That’s fine with me,” Boyko said, placing the small cloth yarmulke on his head.
“Where’s my siddur, my prayer book?”
“It’s where it always is,” Shoshanna said, frowning at her husband’s forgetfulness.
Avraham half-chanted, half-recited the blessing over the wine, and when he finished, he raised his glass, inviting them to drink.
“Nazdrave,” he declared.
“Le’chaim,” Boyko replied, causing his Israeli hosts to laugh.
As Boyko drank the wine, a strange look appeared on his face, indicating his surprise at its sweet taste.
“This is almost like a dessert wine,” he said, licking his lips.
“It’s sweet wine for Kiddush,” Avraham said.
“Not exactly Cabernet Sauvignon,” Ayala commented.
“I hear you have many fine wines in Bulgaria,” Avraham said, indicating to Boyko that he should sit down. “I don’t remember that from my youth. We drank only kosher wines. You know what kosher is?”
“I think the wine industry is relatively new to Bulgaria,” Boyko said, pulling his chair forward to the table.
“Say the ha’motzi already,” Ayala’s mother said, urging her husband to continue with the next blessing. “We all want to eat.”
“Sure, let’s see. How does that go again?”
“Your siddur is right there,” his wife said.
“Abba, I’ll say the blessing. Please cut the challah so that we can continue.”
After they each ate a small piece of the braided bread, Ayala’s mother rose from the table to serve the soup. She ladled out four bowls and placed the first one in front of their guest.
“Chicken soup, with a bit of lemon squeezed in, like the Bulgarian custom.”
“It’s very tasty,” Boyko said after his first spoonful. He asked Ayala’s father, “Do you remember any of your Bulgarian?”
“I remember this.” Avraham recited a short poem in a sing-song voice that immediately caused his wife and his daughter to break out in laughter.
Boyko laughed louder than the women. “The Bulgarian is correct, but your accent,” he said, unable to finish his sentence.
“What does it mean?” Shoshanna asked.
“I recognized some of the words,” Ayala said. “Something about a bear?”
“Ayala is right,” Boyko said. “Metchka is a bear. It’s a poem about a bear meeting a bug, and attempting to eat it.”
“Ah, I remembered the words without knowing what they meant!” Avraham said, joining in the laughter. “The poem came back to me all of a sudden. It was from my childhood.”
“You’ve never recited that before,” Shoshanna said.
“You never asked,” her husband said, drained by the performance. He turned to his dinner guest with a serious look on his face.
“Are you a secret agent like Ayala?”
“Abba, I’m not a secret agent!”
“You work for that agency,” her father replied. “Doesn’t that make you a secret agent?”
“Not at all. I’m just a simple intelligence analyst. I have told you that numerous times!”
“I’m not a secret agent either,” Boyko said. “I am a full-fledged member of the Bulgarian State Agency for National Security. I can show you my identification if necessary.”
“Ayala, it’s too bad your uncle isn’t here to meet Boyko,” her mother said. “They probably have a lot in common.”
“Who is your uncle?” Boyko asked Ayala.
“Oh, he’s someone high up in the Israeli security forces.”
“He helped Ayala get her job.”
“I should meet him some day,” Boyko suggested.
“I doubt that will happen,” Ayala said. “He’s a very busy man, always on missions, many of them overseas.”
“I’m on an overseas mission myself,” Boyko said. “This is my first trip to Israel. I have heard so much about the country. It’s a holy land, the land where Jesus was born and died.”
“You must see Jerusalem!” Shoshanna said excitedly.
“That would be a dream come true—to make a pilgrimage to the holy sites. I would be considered a hadji if I visited the place where Jesus was crucified. But, I doubt it will happen this time. Business comes first.”
“I understand that,” Avraham said. “I told my daughter she must see Sofia, the city where I was born. But apparently she has only been to Burgas and other places along the Black Sea.”
“I had a fine time escorting Ayala around Bulgaria, but yes, she needs to come back to see the rest of the country. Maybe on her next trip she will visit Sofia,” Boyko said.
“Eat some of this,” Shoshanna said, passing her guest a dish of homemade eggplant salad. “You must try our Israeli dishes.”
* * *
“There’s no need to drive me back to my hotel,” Boyko protested.
“It’s not a problem,” Ayala said, unlocking her father’s car. “Sometimes I need to get away from my parents. They can be a little overbearing at times.”
“They were very nice!” Boyko buckled up in the passenger seat as Ayala started the engine. “The food was good and they seemed happy to have me visit.”
“They’re waiting for me to bring home a serious boyfriend,” Ayala said, realizing she had revealed too much the moment the words left her mouth. But Boyko didn’t react to the statement, so she quickly continued. “Tomorrow you can rest and on Sunday we’ll get back to work going over the phone transcripts.”
“So, we have time for you to drive me around, show me the sites.”
“There aren’t too many sites to see at this time of night. Only the streets of Tel Aviv.”
“You know what I need right now? A cigarette.”
“No smoking, please.”
“I haven’t had a cigarette all evening
, in deference to your parents, and to you. It’s not easy for me.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to stop.”
“You’re trying to make me a better man.”
“No, I’m trying to save your life!”
He laughed, and then, as they stopped for a traffic light, he changed the subject. “I noticed a family picture, right next to the candlesticks,” he said.
“Yes?”
“There were four of you in the picture. A young soldier in uniform. Your brother?”
She paused before replying. “I had a brother.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. His name was Tomer. He died.”
38
“It is strange for me to walk on a beach in the month of October,” Boyko said, kicking his bare feet in surf. “Back home, we already have snow in the mountains by now. I am glad you suggested a short detour to the shore. I have only seen the Mediterranean from the window of an airplane.”
“It’s getting colder,” Ayala said, walking alongside him in the surf. “Tonight is relatively warm, but we’ll get winter weather soon.”
“But no snow.”
“Not in Tel Aviv. Sometimes it snows in Jerusalem, and of course on the Hermon. That’s our one mountain, up north. We have ski slopes there and everything, but the season is very short.”
“Have you ever skied?”
“No.”
“You should come to Bulgaria in the winter. The skiing is fantastic, better than at most other places in Europe.”
“I’m not particularly excited by cold weather,” she said.
“I would warm you up,” he said, causing her to stop in her tracks. “Hey, I was kidding!”
Had it been a mistake to join him for a walk on the beach? she wondered.
She had parked the car off Yarkon Street and followed him past the entrance to his hotel and down to the deserted shorefront. The bathing season was officially over. Chaise lounge chairs and beach umbrellas were packed away for the winter; windows were shuttered at the kiosks where they sold ice cream and soft drinks. The Mediterranean waves pounded the shoreline, rushing in from points west, but the waters looked cold and treacherous.
Ayala rubbed her shoulders against a sudden chill. Boyko’s talk of skiing and his lighthearted statement that he would warm her up had stirred up unfamiliar sensations. She was at a loss for words.
“Are you cold now? There’s no snow here!” he said, continuing to prod her.
“I’m fine. Maybe we should head back.”
“Let’s sit down for a while,” he suggested, pointing to a set of steps leading up to the street. “I have been meaning to ask you something.”
“What?’ She sat down next to him. Their bare feet rested in the damp sand, but here, behind a low, cement wall, they were protected from the cool sea breeze.
“It’s about your brother,” he started, causing her to turn and stare. “Tomer, right? You said he died, but I have a feeling there is more to the story.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I haven’t known you all that long, it’s true, but I sense there is something holding you back, entrapping you in memories from the past. Something happened to you, Ayala, I can feel it. I’m a police detective, after all. I have this strange feeling that whatever is deeply troubling you has to do with your brother . . . with Tomer. Am I right?”
“There’s nothing holding me back,” she replied, realizing that her words were far from convincing.
“Ayala, we should be able to open up to each other. You’ve met my parents; I’ve met yours. We’re pretty tight, are we not?” He laughed, but when she didn’t respond, he turned serious. “Tell me about Tomer.”
“What’s there to tell?”
Tears streamed down her face; she could no longer hide her feelings. Lacking the strength to hide her painful past from him, the tale kept so close to her heart burst forth with no further restraints.
* * *
March 1996
Purim was Ayala’s favorite holiday. On this festival of merrymaking, which commemorated the Jewish people’s rescue from Haman, who planned to kill all the Jews in ancient Persia, children dressed up, gleefully making their way to school and to parties to show off their costumes. Quite popular were the modern interpretations of Queen Esther and Mordechai, the long-ago cousins who had foiled the murderous intentions of evil Haman, but there was strong competition with Power Rangers, witches, and Smurfs. Freshly baked oznei haman, the triangular-shaped pastries filled with dates and poppy seeds said to represent Haman’s ears, were consumed with abandon. Purim allowed for a certain amount of tolerated rowdiness in the classrooms. After all, weren’t Jews required to get drunk in celebration of their miraculous rescue?
Purim gave Ayala a chance to break out of her insecure shell. Usually the quietest girl in class—the one who always did her homework and to whom classmates turned with questions about math or for help in understanding English grammar—on Purim, Ayala was able to let loose, to shout, and to sing. Each year she eagerly anticipated the holiday, wondering what her costume would be, if she would win the role of Queen Esther in the class pageant, if some of the boys would look at her with appreciative, grown-up curiosity.
Purim was fun. It was a holiday free from the serious rituals of the Passover seder that would follow a month later, nor was there the solemnity of the High Holidays of autumn. Purim was a happy time, and wild. And Ayala loved it.
As she was getting dressed in her costume, a siren sounded in the distance. She put on her dress and straightened her stockings. And then, another siren. And another. The discordance grew louder and louder, announcing something had happened. Something very bad.
“What is it?” Ayala called out, but her mother didn’t answer. Ayala called out again and headed into the living room, her dress unbuttoned and only one stocking in place.
Shoshanna turned the radio dial, trying to clear away the static interfering with the newscast.
“Initial reports indicate that a bomb has exploded outside Dizengoff Center in central Tel Aviv,” the announcer said in a grave voice. “It appears to be an incident with multiple casualties. Security forces and medical teams are on the way to the scene. Stay tuned for further information.”
“Tomer could be there!” Ayala cried out, thinking of her fourteen-year-old brother. Tomer had gone to Tel Aviv with several of his friends. He had traveled to the city by bus, and in all likelihood, he could be where the explosion had occurred.
“Don’t worry,” Shoshanna assured her. “Tomer is nowhere near Dizengoff Center.”
But he could have gone there, Ayala thought. He could have been passing by the shopping center, or walking down Dizengoff Street when the bomb went off. Or waiting at a bus stop on his way home. Or, who knows? The possibilities were endless, and none of them were good.
“Turn up the radio,” Ayala said. “Maybe they’ll say something more. Maybe they’ll state whether people were killed or injured in the attack.”
“We don’t need to hear those gruesome details.”
But Ayala needed to hear the details. Whenever there was an attack, she remained glued to the television for hours, watching the news reports and listening to the analysis. Where had the bomber come from? Who had assisted him? Had any eyewitnesses seen him at the scene of the bombing? Had anyone noted his arrival beforehand? How many people were killed? What were the survivors saying as they lay in their hospital beds?
Ayala couldn’t understand this crime. Suicide bombing. Why would someone want to take his own life just because of a profound hatred of Israelis? If you believed in a cause, wouldn’t you instead prefer to live to pursue that cause? From what she read in the newspapers and from what her teachers told her in school, the Palestinians desired freedom from Israel; they wanted their own country. They didn’t want Israelis to live here at all. How, she wondered, was a suicide bombing helping them? The methods they were using to achieve their goals were cruel, viole
nt, and deadly. In her mind, these random acts of violence were making it less likely there would ever be an independent Palestine.
“Where is Tomer?” Ayala asked, her concern growing. “Why hasn’t he called?”
“Stop worrying,” her mother replied. “Now, you’re getting me upset.”
Was Tomer really all right? If so, where was he? Maybe he had been injured, Ayala thought. Maybe, at this very moment, paramedics were evacuating him from a burning bus. Maybe, God forbid, he was already dead. No!
“I need to go there!” Her brother needed her. She needed to find him, to save him.
“Go where?”
“To Dizengoff, to help!”
“To help what? Ayala, you’re just a young girl. They don’t need your help.”
How could she express what she was feeling? Ayala felt a desperate need to rush to the scene of the bombing and bring back her brother. Perhaps only she could identify him, only she could assist if he was injured. What had he been wearing that morning? Had he taken a backpack with him to the city?
“There’s more news,” Shoshanna said, holding up a finger so she could pay attention to what was being said on the radio.
Ayala sunk into the cushions of the sofa, frustrated that she was doing nothing at all to locate her brother. Where was he?
Ayala and her mother sat glued to the television as it began to broadcast a live feed from the roped-off entrance to the shopping center. The bomber had detonated himself in the middle of a major intersection, the newscaster said. It had been crowded with children and teenagers in Purim costumes. Police had cordoned off the entire area near Dizengoff Center; ambulance crews had evacuated the wounded. The volunteers of ZAKA, the religious emergency response team, continued to comb the pavement for body parts and tissue that would need to be buried with the dead. Security officers were searching the nearby area for the bomber’s accomplices.
“Twelve Israelis lost their lives in the bombing,” the newscaster announced in a somber voice. “Among the victims were many young children. The names of the victims are being withheld pending notification of family members.”
