On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  “So we’ll do that, right?”

  “You can,” Bette told him. “Jews—Israeli Jews anyway—are not permitted on the Muslim side.”

  Jack appreciatively scanned Bette’s modestly stated beauty. “How they gonna tell?” he asked.

  “Listen,” she corrected sternly. “You may have a nice, secure new job, but I want to keep the one I have now, yes?”

  “Okay, okay,” Jack conceded. “I’ll come back with Amir some other time.” Giving her a big hug he said, “Today’s really about being together. I’m so glad you were able—and wanted—to come.”

  She gave him a big kiss that sent a rush of chills up the back of his neck. She stood on tiptoe and tugged on his hair. “My pleasure,” she breathed in his ear.

  They joined the back of a group of Americans touring the synagogue. As custom dictated, all the males wore head coverings. Jack put on the kippah Bette gave him. Besides the traditional kippot Jack noticed three ball caps and a Texas cowboy hat.

  The guide, a portly Israeli whose thinning hair barely provided an anchor for the hairpin holding his yarmulkah, said, “These are the monuments to Abraham, over here, and to his wife, Sarah, over there.”

  “Who’d you say?” cowboy hat inquired.

  “Our patriarch, Father Abraham and our Matriarch Sarah,” the guide patiently repeated.

  “That’s what I thought you said. Buried in the wall, are they?”

  “No, no! In the cave below us. Cave of Machpelah. Cave and land was bought by Abraham when his wife died.”

  A teenage boy in a baseball cap waved his hand. “How far below?”

  “Sixteen feet, yes?” The guide offered. “Five meters.”

  “We going down there?” the boy persisted.

  “No. No one goes there. Respect for the dead, you see? But if you’ll follow me across the hall we see the monuments. . .”

  “Thought we were gonna see the cave,” cowboy hat complained.

  “No, no cave. But if you follow me we will see monuments to Jacob and Leah.”

  “Now you know why I sometimes pretend to be a Brit,” Jack whispered.

  Bette shushed him, but giggled.

  Jack laid his hand on the wall. My people are buried down there, he thought. No longer “their people.” My people.

  Noticing his momentary inward gaze Bette leaned closer and said, “This would be a good place to have a vision, true? Abraham learning of the son of his old age. Grieving for Sarah. And perhaps it’s true what they say about Adam and Eve being buried here too. If this is the gate to Eden, they wanted to get back as close as they could to what they had lost.”

  Jack nodded. “Mark Twain wrote—you know Twain?”

  “Of course, silly!”

  “Twain wrote his idea of Adam and Eve’s story. Humorous, mostly. But when Eve died and Adam buried her, he wrote this epitaph: ‘Where she was, there was Eden.’ ”

  “Ah,” Bette sighed. “Very romantic.” Then straightening up she said, “But are you having a vision?”

  Jack grabbed both her hands and stared into her eyes. “I sure am,” he said.

  Bette blushed and dropped her chin, but smiled. “Don’t be sacrilegious. We’re in a synagogue.”

  “Don’t want to be sacrilegious,” Jack returned. “Okay, let’s go. We finish the tour, then lunch time. My treat.”

  “Perfect. I know a great falafel place just a block from here.”

  Even though they didn’t need the car, their path to lunch took them back past where it was parked. A pair of Arab boys dressed in Levis and wearing matching ball caps looked up at their approach. “Hey, mister. We wash your windows, eh?” the taller of the two offered, while the shorter pantomimed scrubbing a windshield.

  “You give us money. A dollar, U.S. dollar?” the shorter demanded.

  “Sounds like a bargain,” Jack said agreeably. “Oops, wait. No U.S. dollars.”

  “Jack,” Bette said tersely. “Something’s not right. Where’s the bucket? Where’s the water?”

  Moving closer, the pair said, “It’s okay, lady.”

  “Back behind your car, see?”

  “How’d you know which one was mine?” Bette demanded.

  The noise of running footsteps erupted from an alleyway behind them. A man wearing an eye patch and waving a knife with a jagged blade was only ten feet away. Shouting, “Allahu akbar,” he flung himself toward Jack.

  Bette drew the concealed pistol from her waistband, just as the taller of the two boys grabbed her arm. The first shot went wild, shattering an adjacent car’s windshield.

  This can’t be happening again! Jack thought. Not here! Not now!

  At the last second before the knife plunged into Jack’s chest, Bette crashed into him, knocking him out of the way.

  Bette triggered off another round, but Jack didn’t see where it went because the other teenager tackled him. His assailant only captured one of Jack’s legs. Kicking out hard with the free limb, Jack had the satisfaction of feeling the sole of his hiking boot crunch into the jaw of his opponent.

  Jack heard Bette cry out, and another shot boomed. Then the second boy hit Jack from behind. His head bounced off a cement post and Jack fell to the ground, unconscious.

  He didn’t know how long he was out, but it couldn’t have been long because when he looked up Bette was standing over him. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Both hands on his head, Jack peered past her to where the adult attacker lay on the ground. “So you got him? It’s over then? What happened to the boys?”

  “Ran off,” Bette said. “Jack, I. . .”

  What was wrong with her? Her color was funny and she stood with her left hand pressed awkwardly against her stomach.

  “I—I love you, Jack,” she said. The pistol dropped to the pavement. Then her knees buckled. Her hand fell away from her belly, revealing a bright splash of spreading crimson.

  Then she collapsed.

  Jack sat on the curb, his head in his hands. He was holding an ice pack against a sizable knot on his skull. He was a little nauseated and his vision was blurry, but he was otherwise okay—physically.

  “Please,” he begged for the tenth time. “Let me go with her.”

  The paramedic treating Jack said patiently, “Officer Deekmann is being airlifted to the trauma center at Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. She’ll be there in ten minutes. You have, at worst, a mild concussion. We will transport you to Beit Hadassah Clinic here in Hebron. It’s a fine facility. They will take good care you.”

  Jack could not get past the vision of Bette being strapped onto the gurney. Her skin was the same color as the policewoman who was knifed at Damascus Gate; the one who died. When Jack called her name, Bette’s eyelids fluttered—but that was all.

  The helicopter landed at an open plaza near the car park. Bette, a flask of IV fluid already flowing into her arm, was whisked past Jack and loaded aboard the aircraft.

  “I’ll skip the treatment,” Jack said. “Can’t I just ride with her?”

  Even as he asked again the rotors spun up and the helicopter lifted off. It banked overhead, then sped away toward the northeast. Jack’s eyes followed the aircraft while it dwindled to a tiny speck and then disappeared. Jack felt his worst fears rising, like the helicopter soaring upward, and his hope diminishing, just as the craft diminished to a vanishing pinprick of light.

  “I still refuse treatment here,” Jack said, struggling to stand. Jack displayed a set of car keys in his hand. “I have her keys. I’ll drive myself to. . .”

  “You’re in no shape to drive,” the paramedic stated flatly. He called out in Hebrew to another of the medical personnel. There was a brief discussion, then the first attendant again addressed Jack. “I’m getting off duty right now and am going to take the bus back to Jerusalem. I’ll drive you to Hadassah and then I can catch another bus home from there.”

  “I lost my cell phone,” Jack explained to the security officer in the main waiting room of Hadassah Hospital. �
��It’s almost midnight. They were supposed to ring me with any news about Bette Deekman’s surgery. It’s been nearly seven hours. I’m Jack Garrison.”

  “Sure. I’ll check.” The officer nodded sympathetically and phoned the surgical floor.

  A few words were exchanged on the phone in Hebrew. “Sorry, Mr. Garrison. She’s still in surgery. Why don’t you head back to your hotel? They’ll ring you there if there’s any news.”

  Jack shook his head and glanced around at the nearly empty room. “I’ll stay. Thanks.”

  Only one family group remained. They were clustered around an old woman in a seating area in the far corner.

  Adult children and grandchildren snoozed on couches and in chairs. The elderly woman gazed at Jack.

  Jack met her gaze. The old woman crooked her finger, motioning for him to come over.

  “Shalom.” She lifted her chin and peered at him with weary blue eyes. Her wizened face betrayed years of hard work under harsh sun. Her words were heavily accented. “Young man. I have seen you sitting there alone.”

  “Yes. My—friend—was stabbed in Hebron today.”

  “It’s all over the news. My grandson, Yosef, saw it on the Google.” She inclined her head toward a sleeping young man of about twenty. “His cell phone tells him everything. The Hebron attack. I am so very sorry. You are American? Yes? Her American friend, Jack something—was not injured, the news said. And your photograph they showed.”

  “Yes. I’m Jack Garrison.”

  She extended her hand. “Jack, I am called Dodi. We—our family—are waiting for news about my sister-in-law. She had a heart attack today and is in surgery now.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jack sympathized. “It’s a long night.”

  “Yes. Very long. Thank you—Jack. I thought I recognized you. And perhaps I recognize your friend—Bette—as well? Your pictures are both on the news, you see.”

  “Yes. . .”

  She continued. “And when I saw the photographs I think I remember you were both at the funeral of Sol Baruch? Yes? I am correct?”

  “Yes. We were.”

  She raised a finger to her temple. The blue number of a concentration camp tattoo was on her wrist. “I thought so. She is such a lovely girl.”

  “Thank you. Yes. Very. Saved my life. And other lives.”

  “I thought it was her. And you—when I saw you at Sol’s funeral. I thought to myself, you look familiar to me. So much like a young man I knew once. A very, very long time ago. And Jack, how did you know Sol?”

  A doctor, still in scrubs, entered the room and made a beeline toward the family, interrupting the conversation. The physician’s weary burst of Hebrew announced good news. Like a pile of puppies, family members roused themselves and smiled and hugged one another. No translation needed.

  Jack backed away, unnoticed by the happy family. They exited, exultant.

  Jack was left alone to wait.

  Another hour passed. Returning to the desk, he asked again for news. Another call to the surgical floor.

  News at last. Bette was out of surgery and just moved to recovery. She had survived thus far. It could be hours before they could move her into the ICU.

  Jack was urged to go back to his hotel; he could see her in the morning. Again Jack insisted on waiting.

  It was all too familiar.

  Jack stood rooted in front of the entrance leading to the ICU ward of Hadassah Hospital. His arms hung limply at his side. He stared at the locked double doors.

  Dread. Helplessness. How could this be happening a second time in his life? His thoughts took him back to St. Thomas Hospital in London; back to Debbie in the hospital bed. Her tangled blond hair was fanned out on her pillow. Machines and graphs, IV bags. Tubes and wires. The ventilator down her throat. Her eyes opened and filled with such love for him as he held her hand and told her everything for the last time. They both knew this was farewell. Her mother was flying in from the States. Would she make it in time? Jack thought he could not live through that day. Or the days to follow.

  And now? Bette. Out of recovery after eight hours of surgery. Critical condition. Jack knew what he would see. He was afraid of what lay behind those doors.

  The sign, in Hebrew, Arabic, and English, read: “ICU—3.”

  He glanced at the phone used to call the trauma ward nurses’ station that would allow him admittance. Whispering almost inaudibly, he rasped, “Oh God, please…”

  From behind, a hand touched his shoulder. A heavy-set nurse with warm brown eyes asked him gently, “May I help you?”

  He managed to find his voice. “I’m here for Bette—Deekmann. I’m Jack Garrison.”

  “Oh, yes! Mr. Garrison. Yes. You are on the visitor’s list.” The nurse punched in the code and the doors clicked and swung open for him.

  The ICU station was on the left overlooking a dozen curtained cubicles on the right. He waited as a dark-haired nurse finished entering data at a computer.

  “I’m here for Bette Deekmann. Jack Garrison.”

  “Ah. Mr. Garrison. She has been asking for you.”

  “Yes. Please, how is she?”

  “Still very critical. She needs to rest but has been trying very hard to stay awake. Asking for Jack. Only a few minutes please. Room 316.”

  Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Jack stepped through the curtain into his worst nightmare. The room was cool. Almost too cold. Bette’s face and lips were pale, almost the color of the sheets. Machines and tubes were festooned around her head as he expected. He stood at the footboard and touched her exposed toes. Too cold. Most of the pink nail polish she wore was removed for surgery. All that remained was a daisy painted on her big toe. He imagined her choosing her flower. Sunny girl. Happy, smiling Bette. “I’ll have that one…” A daisy suited her. Jack covered her foot with a blanket and moved to stand beside her.

  Long dark hair was brushed back and neatly braided. He touched her forehead.

  “Bette? It’s Jack. I’m here, Bette.”

  Long thick lashes fluttered and her eyes opened. She almost smiled. He leaned close and kissed her cheek. Too cold.

  She breathed his name. “Jack?”

  “I’m here Bette. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded with relief. “Jack. . .”

  Her flesh seemed too beautiful and fragile to hold such a bright and powerful soul.

  “I know—I know, darling. You just need to get well. . .”

  A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye. “I—don’t—know—if…”

  “Please, Bette. Please. You gotta fight. I need you to fight. For me.”

  She nodded.

  The curtains stirred. The nurse entered. “Mr. Garrison? Time.”

  “Okay.” Jack took Bette’s hand. “I gotta go now. I’ll be back, okay?”

  Bette fixed her gaze on him, pleading. She squeezed his hand tightly and mouthed, “I love you.”

  “Yes. And I love you.”

  Important words, he thought as he made his way out of the trauma ward. Looking over his shoulder and up to where he guessed her room was, he caught a cab back to the hotel. He thought of the painted daisy.

  Bette had warned him, “Never say goodbye without saying ‘I love you.’ Life is so uncertain. A person never knows when it might be the last goodbye.”

  Sunlight streamed through the twelve Chagall stained glass windows in the synagogue at Hadassah Hospital. Bathed in light and color from the windows representing the twelve tribes of Israel, Jack, Lev, and Amir quietly prayed together. Jack’s friends carried the promise that all Israel was praying for Bette. What better place to call upon the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob for the miracle of Bette’s healing? Jack took some comfort in that, but the attack replayed over and over in his mind. Had he done all he could do? Was there anything more he could have done?

  Jack walked back from the sanctuary to the main lobby. He spotted Dodi, the old woman he met in the waiting room the night before. Tod
ay, she wore the blue uniform of a Hadassah volunteer. From her station behind the information desk she spotted him reading the grim headlines. “Shalom, Jack! Have you had any rest?”

  “Not much. How is your sister-in-law?”

  “She’ll make it. She has another great-grandchild due in November, and she told us all she refuses to die. Life is the best motivation to keep living. True?”

  He nodded. “True.”

  “So—Jack? Have you eaten? It’s my job to make sure visitors know how to find the cafeteria.” She took his arm and escorted him down the corridor. “You need to stay strong for her, young man.” She preceded him through the cafeteria line and the salad bar. “Why is there no chicken soup in a Jewish hospital?” She scolded a cafeteria worker. She ordered Jack, “Sit here. Eat. Sometimes when things are very difficult a good meal is just the thing.” She poked his newspaper as if it were a vile thing. “Never mind that. We all know the truth. If you need anything, I am here. And listen, tomorrow you and I are going to have lunch together. My shift is over at noon and I will expect you to pick me up at the information desk. Then I want to hear all the information about what a nice American boy like you is doing in a place like this.”

  She made Jack smile for the first time since Hebron. “It’s a date,” he agreed.

  She scuttled away, leaving Jack to his meal.

  He managed a few bites for the sake of obeying this typical Jewish grandmother. Grilled chicken and sautéed vegetables grew cold. Jack’s appetite was gone. He scanned the article in The International New York Times: Israeli Officer Kills Palestinian in Hebron.

  The story reported the confrontation was provoked by the American companion of IDF officer Bette Deekmann. The facts were so grossly distorted Jack could hardly believe it was the same incident.

  A tall, gray-haired man in a plain, black uniform without insignia approached and sat down across from Jack. “Shalom, Dr. Garrison. I am Officer Deekmann’s commander. May we speak a moment?”

  Jack stared for a few seconds, wondering if this was a vision, and then wondering if he still possessed the ability to speak. “Some headline, huh?” he replied.