The Book of Trees

by Leanne Lieberman

  Mrs. Blume gripped my shoulder. “I imagine those survivors getting off the ship and being handed guns to fight for something they really needed: a homeland.” As Mrs. Blume spoke, she showed me slides of waterfalls in the north, temples in Jerusalem, southern deserts and the Tel Aviv coast.

  I spent the next few months reading the novel Exodus and a book about the women of the Bible. Many nights when I closed my book I’d lie in bed, too charged up to sleep. I imagined people fleeing a land of snow and dirt, fleeing ravaging Cossacks and bloodthirsty Nazis, fleeing to freedom in a sun-drenched land ready to be planted, harvested and re-peopled. It made me think of my mother’s favorite protest songs: Dylan doing “The Times They Are a-Changin’” and Pete Seeger singing “If I Had a Hammer.” I imagined myself in Israel, walking in the desert, tracing the footpaths of my foremothers Sarah, Rachel, Rebecca and Leah. I’d visit the shops and streets where Holocaust victims became survivors, where the nearly dead became warriors. Like Hannah Senesh, who died trying to rescue Jews from the Nazis, or like the red-haired girl in Exodus, I’d be a religious warrior princess, studying Torah, traveling the land and celebrating Shabbos.

  Now I stared up at the stippled ceiling of our bland room in a hotel in the middle of those weird trees. Mrs. Blume had never said anything about people already living here. I’d never really thought about Palestinians. They were men wrapped in scarves throwing rocks at Israeli soldiers on the news. I knew they committed terrorist acts, but I’d never thought about why they did them.

  I tried to think of the shade the trees cast, the individual needles, the solid strength of each one growing out of that rocky soil, each tree representing a pioneer, a Jew who needed a homeland. But other people used to live here, had raised children and crops on this land. The trees seemed paltry, even miserable, in comparison. I mean, I loved trees, but not more than people.

  I couldn’t concentrate the next day during prayers. Through the windows I could see that creepy army of trees. I kept thinking, There are trees instead of people so Jews like me could come to Israel. I had to take a few deep breaths to calm the panic rising in my chest.

  After lunch I went for a walk alone in the forest. It was very hot and the repetitive lines of trees made me feel dizzy. I’d never seen a forest without shade and fallen branches. It was like a tree museum or a tree farm. Worse, it felt dead, like a tree graveyard. “These people should stick to desert,” I murmured. These people? What did that mean? I rushed back up the hill to the retreat center, trying to get out of the forest as fast as I could.

  When the sun finally fell behind the hills and we’d sung the havdalah blessings marking the end of Shabbos, we boarded the bus back to the B’nos Sarah dorm. I couldn’t wait to go.

  Back in the dorm I lay on my bed in our darkened room with a damp washcloth over my face. My head ached from clenching my teeth. I could hear the voices of happy girls in the lounge. I wished they’d all go out and leave me alone. I hadn’t slept well the night before.

  Aviva knocked on our door and leaned her head in. “You okay?”

  I lifted the washcloth and squinted at the light from the hall. “Headache.”

  “Will you be okay to play?”

  “Play what?”

  “Remember, the kumzitz?”

  I groaned. “Oh right.” I’d agreed to play guitar for a sing-along.

  Aviva brought me some painkillers and sat on my bed while I got dressed. She had a tan from sitting out in the garden and was wearing a new pair of sandals.

  I followed Aviva through the quiet hallways of the school. She poked my ribs. “What’s with the serious look? It’s Saturday night.” She gave a little skip.

  “I’m still thinking about the trees.”

  “What trees?”

  “At the retreat center.”

  “What about them?” We went into the second-floor lounge, and Aviva flicked on the lights.

  “Doesn’t it bother you that the Jews took over land where other people were living?”

  “No, it was our land.” Aviva started moving chairs to form a circle.

  “Yes, but other people lived here.”

  Chani and Rifka came in with some other girls, carrying bottles of juice, cups and bags of chips. Aviva waved at them and then turned back to me. “That’s true, but they weren’t supposed to.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Chani asked.

  “Oh, just Palestinians.”

  Chani nodded and joined the other girls in arranging the chairs.

  Aviva turned back to me. “God promised the land to the Jews, not the others.”

  “So where were the Palestinians supposed to live?”

  “There were no Palestinians before ’48. They invented that identity. Before that they were just Arabs and they should have gone to Jordan or Lebanon to live in Arab countries.” She smiled and walked away to get more chairs. “Hey, Mia, Ruthie brought the guitar.”

  I silently took the guitar and absently started tuning it. The other girls chattered and danced around the room. What was an invented identity? Israel was a young country. Wasn’t their culture made up from scratch? What was all the tree planting about anyway? It was true there were lots of other Arab countries and only one Jewish country. Still, there had been people living in a village where now there were only trees. My head started to ache again.

  More girls filed in, picked up song sheets and sat down. I strummed some bluegrass licks to warm up my fingers, and then I played “Amazing Grace,” the first song I learned on banjo.

  Aviva stared at me as if I’d become an alien, so I laid the guitar down on my lap and drummed my fingers on it until Aviva called the group to order.

  She led the girls in singing “Lo Yisa Goy El Goy Cherev.” Nation shall not lift up sword against nation. The girls belted out the song, hands clapping and feet stamping. I strummed along furiously, trying to keep up with their pace.

  Then the girls sang a slower song about Jerusalem, “Yerushalayim Shel Zahav.” Jerusalem of Gold. They draped their arms around each other’s shoulders and swayed as they sang.

  Oh, Jerusalem of gold,

  And of light and of bronze,

  I am the lute for all your songs.

  As their voices curled up toward the ceiling, my mind wandered back to what Aviva had said about the Palestinians. Did the rest of the girls think the same things? Chani and the others hadn’t even been interested in the discussion.

  I couldn’t stand the way trees were being used. Trees were part of the natural world, like lakes and mountains. They were God’s creation. They were supposed to just be. Sure, people chopped them down, like when Grandma Quinn’s willow was razed, but how could they be used so violently?

  When the kumzitz was over, Chani lingered behind. “Hey, Mia?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I bet you know how to play lots of other songs.”

  “Sure.”

  Chani lowered her voice. “Do you know how to play that Jaywalkers’ song, the one that’s always on the radio at home?” She sang the first line.

  I hesitated. I thought of Don reading those terrible lyrics to us in our kitchen, and then I thought of us all up at the cottage. For a moment my mind wandered and I was under the birch trees at the shore. I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t know that one.”

  I went back up to my room and chose a postcard of a waving Israeli flag.

  Dear Don,

  Where you are, trees are part of nature. Here, they are acts of violence.

  I didn’t send it.

  SIX

  The next morning I found Michelle already reading the lesson in our Torah class. She hadn’t come to the retreat because she’d wanted to spend Shabbos studying for her conversion. She looked more pale and drawn than usual.

  Michelle looked up. “How was the retreat?”

  I sat down. “Okay. Restful, sort of. It was in kind of a weird place.”

  “How so?”

  “It was in this forest, but not a
real forest, a planted one.”

  “Oh, I’ve been to one of those. It’s amazing.”

  I tried not to frown. She looked so happy.

  Michelle beamed. “I went on Tu B’shvat, the New Year of the Trees, and I got to plant my own tree.” Her face glowed with pleasure. “We went to this place—even movie stars plant trees there—and I had this little sapling and I put it in the ground with my own hands. Did you know there’s a special prayer just for that? I felt just like a kibbutznik planting trees to drain the swamps.”

  Michelle looked so happy I didn’t tell her about the village underneath the trees.

  After classes I went to the Old City. I couldn’t face the empty feeling of the Kotel, so I went to the Tower of David Museum, an enormous stone citadel near Jaffa Gate.

  Icy air blasted me as I walked through displays depicting the history of Jerusalem: marauding Greeks, crusading Christians, invading Mameluks and, finally, the homecoming of the Jews. I chose a chair below an air-conditioning vent and let goose bumps form on my skin. I watched a film about Israeli independence twice in a row. The crowds cheered, waved flags and danced the horah. Behind me I could hear a Holocaust film from the previous display.

  I yawned and checked my watch. The trees were plaguing my sleep. I dreamed of vines running rampant, strangling people while they ate their breakfasts, devouring them as they read the evening paper. When I tried to pray at school, I saw those trees between the words on the page. I squirmed in my chair. I could go back to the dorm and sweat in front of my fan or to school for a drop-in Hebrew session. Neither option appealed.

  Heat smacked me in the chest as I left the air-conditioned exhibit hall. A sheen of sweat instantly broke out under the brim of my hat. I followed the labyrinthine paths of the citadel to a lookout tower. The Dome glimmered across the Old City’s church spires, hydro wires, tv antennas and hot-water tanks. Down the street I could see a hostel with mattresses spread out on the roof. That must be where Andrew lived. He hadn’t been on Ben Yehuda since the afternoon we went to the bar. Now there was just the traffic to listen to while waiting for the bus. Andrew would probably know about the trees. He would have some outside perspective. Yes, I could ask him.

  I headed out of the museum and marched in the direction of the hostel. Twice I walked down dead-end streets, until I asked for directions.

  In the lobby of the hostel, a large man with an untucked shirt talked on the phone behind a counter. A young woman in a gauzy sundress and several toe rings sat on a couch painting her toenails. A henna tattoo snaked around her biceps. She made me think of the bars I used to play at in Toronto.

  I paused to study a bulletin board. Bongo drums and a Serratus backpack were for sale. Peace Now was looking for volunteers to rebuild houses. Three American women wanted a non-smoking roommate. All were welcome to attend a Jewish meditation course in Sefat. Flyers advertised car rentals, a Chinese buffet and tours to the Golan, the Galilee and the Negev.

  Faintly, I could hear people singing and playing guitars.

  “Where’s the music coming from?” I asked the man behind the counter.

  He pointed toward a tiled staircase. “The roof.”

  The music, U2’s “One,” grew louder as I climbed up six flights. Rows of drying laundry lined one side of the roof. On the other side loomed the Dome of the Rock and the Citadel, with the Mount of Olives behind. A group of travelers sat in the shade of an outstretched tarp on an assortment of rickety stools, rough benches and crates. Two blond guys in jean cutoffs and ball-caps led the song on guitars, toes tapping in their sport sandals. From the top of the staircase I could see Andrew strumming along, his back to me. The round chords of the song reverberated across the roof. I started singing along.

  I paused at the edge of the circle and dug my nails into my wrists to fight the urge to push up the sleeves of my plain T-shirt. I imagined the travelers thinking, What the hell is someone dressed like that doing here?

  I wouldn’t stay for the music. I’d just ask Andrew about the trees; then I’d be off. I hovered behind him until the song finished. When he saw me, one light brown eyebrow slid toward his hairline. “Hey, sandwich girl, good to see you. Have a seat.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “You playing hooky again?”

  I laughed and shook my head.

  “Not for one song?”

  “Well…”

  The musicians started playing “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

  “Um…okay.” I started singing along again.

  Secular music wasn’t really what my life was about now, but it was only for a few minutes. I found a chair among the lines of drying laundry, and Andrew moved over to let me in. A blond woman with a violin offered me a beer. I hesitated and then accepted. The icy bitterness instantly made me feel cooler. A joint made its way around the circle. I held it a moment, letting the sweet smell tickle my nostrils, then passed it along without inhaling. It reminded me of listening to Led Zeppelin with Matt.

  The U2 song ended and someone struck up “Country Roads.” My hands ached to play.

  “You want?” Andrew held out his guitar.

  I shook my head.

  “Here, c’mon. You look like you know this one.”

  I hesitated and then reached for the guitar. “Like the back of my hand.”

  I wanted to take off my hat and shake my sweaty hair out of my tight braids. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand instead. I played G, E minor, D, my voice quietly harmonizing with the others.

  “Yeah,” one of the blond guys called out.

  “Sounds good,” another said.

  I relaxed into the familiar chords and let my head tip back, my eyes close. My mom’s friend Deirdre used to play the song at Sheila’s potluck guitar nights. I’d fall asleep to the music, the smell of chili lingering in the air.

  The song ended and the blond guys launched into a Beatles’ Abbey Road medley. I held the guitar out to Andrew, but he folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sure you know this too.”

  I strummed along. “Actually, I came to ask you something.”

  “What’s up?” Andrew leaned back in his chair.

  Around me the others sang, “You never give me your money.” I stopped playing the guitar and hugged it to my chest. I didn’t know where to start. “It’s about the trees here. I thought maybe you would know something about them. I don’t know very much about politics. Well, nothing at all.” I paused and tried to think of what to say next. Andrew sat, eyes wide, listening intently, ignoring the others around us. I felt my cheeks redden. “I’m going to start all over again.”

  “Take your time.”

  The travelers sang, “And in the middle of negotiation, you break down.” The guitar felt good in my hands, like I was sitting in an old familiar position.

  I took a deep breath. “I was at this retreat this weekend, near Jerusalem, and there was this forest… well, it wasn’t really a forest, more like a park. Planted trees, one of those JNF forests—that means Jewish National Fund. I don’t know if you know about them. And then, all of a sudden it dawned on me—you’ll think this is really stupid—but there was this plaque that talked about the soldiers who died taking over the area. I guess I thought Israel was an empty country or that all the Arabs took off when the Jews arrived. I don’t know if I read that or—or if I just thought that.”

  “I think half the country is built over former Arab villages.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” I felt my forehead wrinkle. “I know there was a war and all, but I didn’t realize they did that with trees—planted over villages.”

  Andrew narrowed his eyes. “You win the war, you keep the land.”

  “I know. I just…well, maybe I didn’t know.”

  “The government is still taking over land.” His face lost its usual teasing grin.

  “Really?”

  “Sure. There’s this girl here, Sonia, who works for some peace organization. She was s
aying they force Palestinians to sell their land so they can build more Jewish housing.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  Andrew shrugged. “They don’t recognize the Palestinians as citizens.”

  I cracked my knuckles in my lap. “It seems so twisted to use trees to claim the land. I mean, I love trees.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “My grandmother used to send money to plant those JNF trees.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I sighed and hugged my arms around me. “I was hoping you’d say something reassuring.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. That it’s for a greater cause. My roommate says it was our land to start with.”

  Andrew rested one foot on his other knee. “And what do you think of that?”

  “I’m not sure what to think. I always thought being Jewish meant being moral and taking the higher ground.”

  “Seems to me the Jews are always killing for their land.”

  My face grew hot. “That’s because the Jews are always under attack. Someone is always trying to take away our land. And what about the Holocaust? Where were the Jews supposed to go after that?”

  Andrew shrugged. “Displacing other people only makes more problems. We should get Sonia over here. Hey, Sonia.”

  A thin girl wearing a bandanna over short dark hair looked at us across the circle. She had a nose ring and a tattoo of the sun on her exposed shoulder. Andrew motioned her over. “Mia and I were just talking politics, and I was telling her that you were our local expert.”

  Sonia grinned and shook her head. “What do you want to know?”