by Ray Bentley
“You can’t imagine how very much. . .” Jack paused. “And just one more question? You see, I know nothing about him. Only today I learned I am his double. So—if you could. . .”
Sol spread his hands wide. “Anything, my son. Anything for the grandson of my dearest friend.”
“You say you and my grandfather were at the Sorbonne together. What did he study?”
“I will tell you! Jacob de Louzada was a musician. Yes. Extraordinaire. French horn. A talent unlike any other, it is said. First chair in the Paris symphony orchestra. And he was also an artist. His great love was the potter’s wheel.” Sol pointed to the ceramic sign on the garden wall. “That was his parting gift to me. SHALOM. Yes. Peace is what we have all longed for. He was a man of a great and beautiful soul. So: Shabbat dinner. We will talk all you want.”
The Old City walls surrounding the Temple Mount gleamed in the spotlights. The moon rose in the east, casting a golden glow on the sacred mountain of the Lord.
Jack thought through Sol’s story about Jacob de Louzada’s struggle to escape to British-ruled Palestine. Suddenly his grandfather was real in Jack’s thoughts. Jacob was a man like any other who longed to live his life in peace and freedom. SHALOM. Mount Zion shone like Eden to centuries of exiled Jews.
Their deepest longing? To return home. That was God’s promise planted deep in the heart of the remnant of Jews—Shearith Israel—to gather those who were scattered from the four corners of the world.
The return of Jack, grandson of a man killed in the Holocaust, was the fulfillment of biblical prophecy. As long as one Jew remained alive to experience the biblical promises of return and redemption, then Satan had lost his long battle to make God a liar.
Jack’s mind was filled with questions about Jacob he wanted to ask Sol. Even small details seemed like lanterns placed along the dark path of Jack’s personal journey. He knew now the visions Eliyahu showed him were links in a golden chain leading from God’s promises to Abraham to the fulfillment of all prophecy in this present day.
Leaving the curtains open, Jack climbed into bed. So much more he wanted to know. He would count the hours until he and Bette could sit down at the Shabbat meal with his grandfather’s dearest friend. He would count the minutes until he could read the letters and know the heart of Jacob de Louzada.
“You speak their language. You have the credentials and the résumé,” said Lev as he explained Jack’s new role with Partners with Zion. “Amir and I know how to speak to pastors and ministry leaders, but we need to expand this program. Remember what was said about showing visitors both ancient rocks and living stones?”
The hands of the clock in the PWZ conference room indicated 6:30 in the morning, and the meeting was already a half hour old.
“I think Lon Silver said that,” Jack suggested.
“That’s where I first heard it,” Lev agreed. “Anyway, when men and women from congress or parliament, or university professors, or investigative journalists, come to Israel, we need to connect them with the land, the history, the prophecy, and the people. Like we do the ministry folks. We need you to be part of the broader reach.”
“But why do you need me?” Jack protested. “You can already call up Bibi and go see him. You know how to talk to politicians as well as me.”
“Remember how you saw the handwriting on the wall, and cities and nations crumbling?” Lev said. “Don’t you think those things mean time is short and we need all hands on deck? Besides,” Lev added. “Now you’re family. Can’t refuse a family need, can you?”
Jack grinned. “Never thought about refusing. I just hope you like the results. After all, I got fired from my last job for my lack of diplomacy.”
Amir leaned forward to offer: “What do you Americans say? No time for beating around the bush? Straight talk—plain talk—is what’s needed. And more of it.”
“Okay,” Jack conceded. “You got me. Now, tell me about Hebron and why it’s so important.”
Waving a feta cheese-stuffed breakfast roll, Lev gestured toward the map of Israel hanging on the wall. The West Bank territory resembled a misshapen kidney bean curling around the eastern side of Jerusalem. In the southern lobe of the bean, in the Judean mountains, was the ancient settlement of Hebron.
“Arabs 200,000,” Amir said. “One thousand Jews.”
“Conquered by Joshua,” Lev added. “Given to the Levites as one of their cities. King David ruled from there for seven years.”
“And the Tomb of the Patriarchs,” Jack said. “Abraham’s buried there. That part I know.”
“Next to the Temple Mount,” Lev continued, “most important and most disputed place in Israel. Since both Jews and Muslims revere Abraham, it’s significant to both—Christians too, of course. The Ibrihimi mosque on top is a repurposed Herodian building, dating to the time of Jesus.”
“Over the Cave of Machpelah,” Amir elaborated. “Abraham bought it when Sarah died. He and his wife are buried there, along with Jacob and Leah. . .”
“Not Rachel,” Lev interrupted. “Her tomb’s near Bethlehem.”
“Isaac and Rebekah,” Amir continued around a mouthful of sesame seed topped bagel. “And some say—Adam and Eve. Legend makes it the threshold of the Garden of Eden.”
Jack saw again his vision of the garden being walled off and the tragic loss experienced by Adam and Eve. “We’ve been trying to get back there ever since,” he murmured.
“But global anti-Semitism makes it a political football game too,” Lev noted. “UNESCO just declared Hebron a ‘Palestinian World Heritage Site in Danger.’ Not Jewish. Not even Jewish and Palestinian—even though the patriarchs existed, what? Twenty-five hundred years before Muhammad was even born?”
“Bibi already responded,” Amir said with a smile. “Took a million dollars from Israel’s commitment to the UN and redirected it to the Jewish Historic Preservation Fund for Hebron. He said it was in response to, ‘another delusional UNESCO decision.’ ”
Lev was more sober when he added, “What Bibi said next is also true: ‘Israel will continue to guard the Cave of the Patriarchs, to ensure religious freedom for everybody—and to guard the truth.’ He went on to say—and he’s right—‘Only where Israel is present—like in Hebron—is freedom of worship assured for everybody.’ You know, in the rest of the Middle East, mosques, churches, ancient monuments, and synagogues are being blown up—all when Israel isn’t there to protect them.”
Jack let it all sink in for a moment. “I need to see it for myself,” he said.
Sabbath came at last. Jack’s anticipation made the waiting hard. He adjusted his blue-and-silver-stripe patterned tie in the mirror, then hurried down to the lobby where Bette waited for him. She stood and grinned playfully at him. His breath caught at her beauty. Better than Wonder Woman, he thought, drinking her in. Her dress showed off her figure, but was long sleeved and modest, suitable for a Shabbat dinner. The material was made of gold and rust-colored autumn leaves that caught the flecks of gold in her eyes. Highlights of red shone in thick hair that tumbled over her shoulders. She wore large gold hoop earrings. Full, moist lips curved up at the corners and glistened with subtle red lipstick.
“I like the package. Where’s the Glock?”
“In a convenient location.”
“Where I come from, ‘dressed to kill’ has a different meaning.”
“Where I come from a girl’s ready for anything.”
“Where have you been all my life?”
“That’s a pretty tired line.”
“Well, I’m wide awake now!”
She blushed. “I’m more comfortable in a uniform.”
“The world’s loss, if that’s the case.” He took her arm.
She playfully flipped his necktie. “This won’t do.”
“No? Not Shabbat wear?”
“No. Not safe. It makes a great handhold for a terrorist. To break your neck.”
“I see.” He removed the tie and shoved it into his sports coa
t pocket. “Working even on your day of rest?”
“Never stop.” She held up a bottle of wine. “For our host.”
Fifteen minutes later the playful banter vanished as Jack and Bette turned up the side street toward Sol’s secret garden. The cramped alleyway was crowded with people milling outside the old man’s house.
“Oh no.” Bette shoved the wine bottle into Jack’s hands. “I’ll find out. . .”
An ambulance with flashing lights was parked against the high wall. The rear doors were thrown open.
The gate into the garden was wide open. Bette flashed her ID to an EMT and began to ask a string of questions in Hebrew. Her face clouded as the answers came back.
She turned to Jack. “They say—Sol is—Jack, Sol is dead. A heart attack, looks like. There’s nothing we can do here. We should go.”
At the entrance to Sol’s house a stretcher appeared.
Jack felt like he had been kicked in the gut. He fixed his eyes on the place where the SHALOM plaque hung. It was no longer there. In the midst of the garden was a table set for Shabbat dinner; white linen table cloth, china, silver, candlesticks were all in place.
Bette tugged his arm, turning him from the sight. “Oh, Jack. Nothing we can do. I’m so very sorry, Jack. Come on. Come on, let’s go.”
The apartment Faisal rented was in Ramallah, but he did not expect to carry out Rahman’s orders there. After the failed Elnathan Mews attack, Faisal was hurriedly returned to the West Bank. The fact Allah practically delivered Garrison into Faisal’s hands by the target’s return to Israel was clear. Now it was merely a matter of picking the right place and time—and the cloned cell phone simplified that.
The two men Faisal recruited in Hebron were male, but that biological fact did not confirm they were adults. One was sixteen, the other fifteen. They were radicalized in their childhoods at their local mosque. Both listened to the radio broadcasts of ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.
Both wanted to be suicide bombers.
Faisal’s first task was to convince them otherwise.
“We want to strike a blow at the heart of the Jews!” Idris exclaimed. “We want to blow up a thousand Jews at the Buraq Wall.”
Faisal slapped him on the back of the head. “Be silent! You would never get within a thousand yards before the police shot you dead! I thought you had a serious desire for jihad—for istishhad. Perhaps I was mistaken. Go home. Go back to your toys.”
“No!” Omar protested. “We do want to be warriors. We do want to be martyrs! Truly! Tell us what to do.”
“That’s better!” Faisal said soothingly. “Here in your home city you will have the opportunity you seek and it will be glorious. You will not only find istishhad, you will be gaining revenge for your brother, Idris, and for your father, Omar.”
Both older men were killed by an IDF missile strike in Gaza while attempting to launch a mortar round at a target in Israel.
“What do we do to prepare?” Omar asked.
“Nothing! And you will say nothing! You will wait until I say it’s time to strike and then you will obey.”
Crowds of Israelis lined the road and raised their voices in song as the body of Sol Baruch was carried to the Jewish Cemetery. At least one hundred musicians playing “Im Eshkachech” followed the procession.
Bette translated the words from Psalm 137,
If I do not raise you
and if I do not raise you
Jerusalem
Above all my joy
Above my highest joy. . .
“Who was this man? Who was Sol Baruch?” Jack asked in awe as he and Bette made their way through the packed street. “I didn’t know I was meeting with an Israeli hero.”
“You Americans have Ben Franklin and John Adams and your Declaration of Independence—so Israel has men like Sol who made aliyah when Eretz Israel was still occupied by the British. And he planted vineyards and also fought beside other Jewish refugees for our independence. He fought in Haganah. Risked his life every day for the restoration of the nation of Israel. A hero. But you know what Sol will be remembered for? Not that he could shoot a gun or that he was wounded defending the road to Jerusalem. Sol Baruch is beloved because he was a music teacher. A teacher of Jewish children who lost their parents and some who survived the Holocaust. Yes. All these people you see—secular and religious—all of them were touched by his kindness and by his music…”
They approached the gates where a group of two dozen elderly Jewish women were seated. Dressed in unadorned black dresses, the women looked on as Sephardim males in black prayer shawls processed past them.
Bette halted with Jack beside the old women and explained, “These won’t enter the cemetery. An ancient custom with the Sephardic women. Customs are changing now, but these still follow the old ways. I’ll wait outside with them.”
Jack felt the unwavering gaze of one old woman fixed on him. Her glare reminded him he was hatless and dressed like an American businessman—out of place. And, after all, he only met Sol one time. Jack sensed the old woman’s disapproval as he held Bette’s hand.
“I’ll meet you here afterwards.” Jack joined the men in the procession to the grave.
Bette was right about Sol.
Psalms were read in Hebrew. An IDF soldier spotted Jack as a non-Hebrew speaker and summarized the eulogies into English. In the end, yes, the life of Sol Baruch was remembered best by former music students who were now old men themselves.
The service was short. Jack exited the ancient cemetery and found Bette waiting for him.
He was silent on the walk back to the car.
“God is good,” Bette said as they buckled their seatbelts. “He let you meet this man who loved your grandfather like a brother. You took an hour to speak with him in his garden and you entered your family’s past. It was important to you. I’m sorry it can’t be more, Jack.”
Jack wondered if he should admit how disappointed he was he did not receive the letters of Jacob de Louzada. In the end he decided it was best to keep quiet.
“Can I take you to dinner?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. Not tonight. I have a meeting. But tomorrow for breakfast? The hotel? Before we drive to Hebron?” She pulled up at the Partner’s Hotel entrance.
“Listen.” He took her hand. “Something you said about never parting without saying—I love you. . .”
Bette smiled. “It’s true. You never know, do you?” She leaned close and lifted her face to his. Their lips met and lingered.
“This feels more like hello than goodbye.” Jack kissed her again. She did not resist.
“Oh, Jack. I’m so happy—tomorrow then. We’ll pick up where we’ve left off.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bette piloted her new, late model, pewter-colored Suzuki SX4 down Highway 60 toward Hebron. It was roomier than the Toyota, “but no sexier,” Jack declared. “I thought you’d go for a Mazda or something with some pizazz.”
“Next time,” Bette declared. “This is what I could afford right now.”
Jack wondered if having the window shot out of the Toyota motivated her to get something of a different shape and color. He decided Bette Deekmann was made of tougher stuff than that.
Spring arrived like a green-and-flowered cloak. South of Jerusalem the roadsides displayed orange poppies that reminded Jack of the Sierra Nevada foothills. The Suzuki overtook and passed a tour bus. “Bullet proof glass on that van?” Jack noticed.
“Can’t have anxious tourists,” Bette declared. “This road used to have a lot of random shootings, but not so much anymore.”
Jack opted against teasing Bette about the “not so much” comment.
She took his lack of response as a request for more information. “Hebron is like the mini-version of the whole issue,” she said. “Two hundred thousand Palestinians—seven hundred Jews. Jews have lived there since—well, you know, since before King David. Through the Roman era, Byzantine, Arab, Turks—right up to the riots of 192
9. About seventy Jews killed, the rest expelled. No Jews ‘til 1967, when some came back.”
“And now?”
“Jews and Palestinians share the city.” She edged in past another tour bus to make the exit marked “Kiryat Arba,” the Jewish town adjacent to Hebron. “And freely moved around in it until the mid-nineties. A wave of killings—both ways. Jewish teenagers murdered. A Jewish madman killed Muslim worshippers in the mosque. Then the Second Intifada happened.” Bette shook her head. “Now it’s divided, you know? Barbed wire. Security cameras. And the travel restrictions cut both ways. No Palestinians travel to the Jewish sector—even though some Palestinian families still live there. No Jews at all live on the Palestinian side. IDF soldiers patrol checkpoints.”
“Why do they stay?” Jack asked. “The Jews in Hebron, I mean. It can’t be easy for so few Jews.”
“It is, what do you say? A Catch Twenty-Two. The Palestinians want a Hebron with no Jews at all. If the Jews living there now move away, they know they’ll never come back.”
Bette parked the Suzuki in a lot not far from the Tomb of the Patriarchs in the Jewish sector of Hebron known as H2.
“And that’s how we get in? Right over there?” Jack asked, pointing to the fortress-like structure dominating the scenery.
“To half of it, anyway,” Bette said. “To see the Muslim side of the building you have to go out and around and in a separate entrance.”
