by Ray Bentley
“So the whole world knows Officer Deekmann shot the attacker dead. But the facts appear to have been left out of the story.”
“No choice. They’re all nuts. The media, I mean.”
“We apprehended one of the Palestinian teenagers,” the commander reported. “We will soon have the other. He says all he knows of the man who recruited them is the name Faisal. Do you know that name?”
Jack shook his head. “Common enough.”
“Did you recognize the man, or have any reason to think you were a specific target?”
“In Hebron?”
“We think he flew to Israel from London the same day you returned.”
“London?” A realization leapt from Jack’s muddled thoughts. “Just before I came back here from London,” he recounted, “I was attacked in my home. The police said it was a burglar, that I surprised him—but it felt more—personal—than that. I think he was trying to kill me.”
“Yes?” the commander encouraged. “Go on. What happened?”
“I defended myself with a—a walking stick. I jabbed it in his eye.”
A soft bell pinged in the corridor and a voice speaking Hebrew made an announcement before falling silent again.
“Ah,” the commander said. “And in Hebron the now dead terrorist wore an eye patch. So you think it might be the same man?”
Jack’s momentary energy dissolved as quickly as it came. He pushed his tray back. “How could I know?” he said. “Just a thought. Doesn’t really make sense, does it? Anyway, why does it matter?”
The officer pointed at the twisted headline. “This is why it matters. What is it your president calls it? Fake news.”
“At the moment all I care about is Bette surviving.”
“And it is our job to make certain Israel survives as well.”
“She had no choice but to kill the guy. That’s what I can tell you now. And if she doesn’t make it…” His voice trailed away.
“You are a praying man, Dr. Garrison? She is getting the best care possible. She is much beloved, and all her friends—including myself—are bringing her to HaShem for His mercy.”
Jack nodded his thanks.
“If I were you, I’d get some rest,” the commander encouraged. “And hold to hope. Sometimes it is all we Jews can do—and it has never failed us yet.”
We Jews, Jack thought. Blessed are You, Lord God, King of the Universe—Who gives us reasons to hope.
Jack returned to his hotel, tired and lonely and fearful. Lev was away. The lobby was empty, except for a few jet-lagged pastors poring over texts and emails on their cell phones.
When Jack stopped by the front desk, the attendant greeted him with genuine concern. “Shalom, Dr. Garrison. It’s so good to see you back. Are you well, sir?”
“Well—thank you. Bette Deekmann is still critical. But stable. It’s a painful road, but we won’t give up hope.”
“Spoken like a true Israeli, Dr. Garrison. Pain is real but so is hope.”
“True—yes—and—I’ll remember that.” Jack did not want to talk about hope. He was so tired. “I—I’ve lost my cell phone. Any messages for me?”
The clerk disappeared into a back room and returned with an express package the size of a large shoebox, addressed to Jack and stamped with security clearance. “This came for you two days ago, Dr. Garrison.”
Jack’s name and the address of the hotel were inscribed in unsteady cursive. It was the handwriting of someone elderly, Jack guessed. The return address was in Hebrew.
“Would you translate this for me please?”
The clerk studied it for a moment, then read it aloud with a breath of wonder in his voice. “Dr. Garrison—the sender is—was—Sol Baruch.”
Jack embraced the package like an old friend. Filled with anticipation, he rushed up to his room. Tearing open the wrapping and lifting the lid, he watched old black and white photos tumble out onto the bed. There were three packets of a dozen letters, each tied with red string and bearing French postmarks from 1938, 1939, and 1940.
In the bottom was a long, heavy object, wrapped in bubble wrap. Jack cut the tape and unrolled the ceramic sign which once hung on Sol’s garden wall:
SHALOM
In the midst was an envelope with Jack’s name inscribed in spidery cursive.
Shalom, Jack.
You are truly Ya’acov, grandson of Jacob de Louzada, a mighty descendant of Abraham! We have a saying; ‘Never Forget!’ But how will we who are passing away be remembered unless we are in the hearts of those who come after us? My friend Jacob and I had a toast when we were young. . .
Here is to those who came before us,
To those who will come after us,
And to us.
I pass that toast on to you now. It is my deepest prayer that in these photographs and letters. . .fragments of a beautiful life, you will find the missing pieces of your own life. May HaShem bless and keep you and make his face to shine upon you.
Shalom!
Sol Baruch
So the great man kept his word to Jack. Before his death the treasure of Sol’s friendship with Jacob de Louzada was carefully gathered up and wrapped to pass on to a new generation.
As the sun rose in the east, Jack spread a hundred photographs out across his bed. Young Jacob and Sol, two friends at the Sorbonne, lived their lives never knowing what lay ahead for them: photographs of the courtship and wedding of Jack’s grandparents, and then afterward as newlyweds in Paris. And so very many pictures of Jack’s mom as a baby, smiling in the arms of her mother.
Jack opened the first letter in the first packet. It was written in French Jack could only translated awkwardly, but the message was clear.
My dear Sol,
By now you are in Galilee, planting grape vines while I remain here in moldering Europe. I am hoping for a visa to come to Palestine. Perhaps when I arrive the grapes in the vineyards of Eretz Israel will be ready to harvest. . .and again we will lift our glasses in the toast. . .I long to join you. I have met a beautiful Jewish girl here who also shares the dream of coming home to Israel Reborn.
I taught her our toast so I do not raise my glass alone. Her name is Rachael Gold and she is the granddaughter of a rabbi. She is truly purest gold; my golden treasure.
Jack could not stop reading. Each letter brought a new revelation. Pieces of his puzzle clicked into place one detail at a time. He studied a photograph of the little family; father, mother, and the baby girl in their arms.
My dear Sol,
Though we continue to pursue every channel, our visas to Palestine are denied…We have one hope remaining…we may be able to send our beautiful little girl on a ship filled with other refugee children to America. Who knows when or if we will ever see her again? But at least we will know she will be safe. . .
He shook his head in awe at the love and courage required by a parent to say goodbye and to give a child to a stranger’s care. This was the heartbreaking reality of how different everything might have been had Israel been a refuge and a homeland for the Jews of Europe.
He kissed the image then placed the letter and photograph back in its envelope and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He would share this with Bette.
This was not the news Jack prayed for.
Bette’s complexion was as pale as the wall. The stats on the monitors were all going the wrong way. Blood pressure dangerously low. Oxygen levels low. Heart rate too fast.
“Abdominal wounds are especially difficult,” the doctor explained to Jack outside the room. “Bacteria from the intestines. We need to open the wound again. Clean out the abdominal wall. But Dr. Garrison, you need to prepare yourself. This isn’t a positive situation.”
So there it was. He was saying Bette could die; that she would die, unless they operated immediately.
The roller coaster of Jack’s hope once again made a roaring spiral downward. There would be no chance to share the letter or photo that brought Jack such joy.
“Can I ha
ve a few minutes with her? Please.”
“Minutes. Yes. There’s no time. We have to prep her.”
Bette opened her eyes slightly and squeezed his hand. She mouthed, “I love you.”
He stroked her forehead. Fever. “Darling, they’re going to have to clean the wound.”
She croaked, “I—heard—them. I’m. Not. Dead. Yet.”
He tried to smile for her. “You aren’t going to die. I promise you, Bette. We have a life to live together. Besides, I have something beautiful to show you—when you’re better.”
She nodded. “Say it—Jack. . .”
“I love you, Bette. I need you to know that. Take my love with you now. Somebody said life is a good reason to keep living. So you have to—we have to—okay?” He prayed for her, pleading in a whisper.
“I believe,” she prayed. She winked at Jack. “See you soon.”
The charge nurse pulled the curtain. “Dr. Garrison, you need to step out.”
Jack kissed Bette. “I love you.”
That was it. It was all too familiar.
Handbag over her shoulder, Dodi was ready and watching for Jack as he emerged from the elevator. She waved and smiled a tight-lipped smile, but her sad eyes revealed she already knew the struggle taking place upstairs.
“Come,” she said. “Come, Jack.” She linked her arm in his. “You don’t need to say anything.”
So Jack did not speak. He let her direct him. They emerged from the hospital into the warm Jerusalem afternoon. He raised his face to the sky. It seemed deeper blue than Jack had ever seen. A flock of birds flew across the skyline of the new city, then vanished beyond the old. Every detail of this moment was distinct, as if suspended between life and death. Leaves shimmered in one hundred nuances of color. Doves cooed from within the branches. A cool breeze carried the scent of jasmine. He inhaled deeply. Had any day ever been so beautiful?
Dodi led him to the bus stop. Showing her transportation pass, she paid Jack’s fare, led him like a little boy, and nudged him into a seat midway back.
He gazed at the ordinary sights of the city as they traveled. How could everything go on as if Bette were not fighting for her life at this very moment?
Men and women driving.
A young Hasidic mother pushing a pram across the street.
A young couple holding hands across the table of an outdoor café.
Two women talking together and laughing as they carried their shopping bags out of a store.
An old man speaking tenderly to his little dog as they sat on a bench.
He thought of these Jews living in the shadow of the ancient city; each life was a story made of a million little stories. They were ordinary people all going somewhere, each carrying his or her own thoughts, own cares.
No one knew what Jack was feeling, except, perhaps this old grandmother who caressed Jack’s hand between ancient palms. The tattoo on her forearm spoke of a life of tragedy, loss, and suffering; but today Dodi laid aside her story to focus on Jack. On Bette. On the surgeons who fought to save Bette’s life.
The bus slid to the curb outside a little café outside the Old City walls. “Our stop,” Dodi said. Jack followed her. He did not know where they were.
The maître d’ knew Dodi. They chatted cheerfully in Hebrew as he seated them at a table in the shade. Jack felt invisible. He was grateful.
She ordered for him. Almost instantly chilled white wine, pita bread and hummus, and creamy lemon chicken soup appeared before them.
“You must eat, Jack,” she gently urged him.
“I am a shadow.”
“Be here.” She leaned forward and fixed her gaze on him. “Eat your chicken soup—eat as if her very life depended on you believing she will get well.” For a moment he saw Dodi as she must have been: young and beautiful, sitting across the table from someone she once loved. “Eat for her and bless God. Thank God for the miracle of life. Believe God loves her and believe He loves you—the pain is real, but so is hope. There is great power in hope.”
He closed his eyes a moment and nodded. “Okay, then. Thank you, God.” Taking a spoonful of soup he let the taste linger on his tongue. It was good; thick with chicken and rice and carrots, flavored with a hint of lemon.
“There. You see?” Dodi smiled and sat back. “Pick up your wine glass. I will teach you a toast.” They held glasses together. “To those who came before us, to those who will come after us, and to us.”
Jack repeated the words and took a sip. “I know this toast. Sol and—my grandfather.”
“Jack. You remind me very much of a young man I loved. I thought so when I saw you at Sol’s funeral.”
“You knew Sol? He was my grandfather’s best friend.”
“Yes. I know. They were great friends.”
Jack was suddenly aware of the numbers on her forearm. “I’m sorry.”
“I was like you when I came to Israel. 1948. My heart was broken. I was hungry but I could not eat. I had lost everything. Everyone I cared about. My husband dead. Our baby girl escaped to America on a Kindertransport. But she did not know me when I returned. I was a ghost to her and she did not wish to live with a ghost. So I saved her life, but lost her, too. And so I came to this reborn Israel, like so many others, alone and grieving.” She paused. “Jack? Like you were grieving for your wife, yes? Debbie was her name? And a baby too.”
“How do you know—wait, what are you. . .”
“Sol took me in. I changed my name—Dodi, he called me—it means ‘my Beloved’—and together we made a new life.”
“But—is this real? You. . .”
“My husband had many connections, you see. And so, even though my little girl told me she did not wish to know me, Sol managed to get me news of her from America. I celebrated her every accomplishment. High School. College graduation. When she fell in love and married. And when she gave birth to her beautiful baby boy. . .”
Her eyes brimmed as Jack reached across the table and clasped her hands.
“Jack.”
Trembling, he retrieved the envelope containing the old photograph and his grandfather’s letter. He opened it and laid it on the table. The beautiful young mother with her baby in her arms—and then he saw Dodi in the sepia image of love and hope and pain… “It’s you,” he cried, “I only just found out—I opened the box Mom sent to London before she died—I was searching for you—you know that—Bette introduced me to Sol and. . .and. . .and. . .”
“And we were going to have Shabbat dinner together. To reveal it then. I packed Jacob’s letters and the photographs of us when we were so very young and in love. All for you. Everything was ready—the meal prepared—and then—Sol flew away. I didn’t know if I could tell you on my own. But God had it all in His plan.”
Jack covered his face with his hands and sobbed silently. Dodi came to him and put her arms around him. She hugged him tightly, her cheek close to his.
“We will believe in miracles together, Jack. For Bette. We are proof—Israel is proof—even if we can’t feel it—God is working things out. Be thankful and believe: where hope grows, miracles blossom.”
Epilogue
Jack stood alone with Lev on the Mount of Olives. It was early morning, not much after daybreak, and the area was still deserted. “Just be glad we got here before 9:00 a.m.,” Lev said. “After that you can’t walk for the tourists or drive for the buses.”
Thankful for Lev’s support, Jack was glad they could grab a few moments alone. Jack wanted to get back to the hospital where Bette was still struggling for her life, but this was a good spot to pray.
Sunlight beaming over Jack’s shoulder illuminated the golden dome on the Temple Mount, and warmed the fawn-and-amber hues of Old City Jerusalem. Below him, the slope covered with olive trees and cemeteries remained in shadow.
“It’s weird to say, but even the dead fight over this place,” Lev noted. “We Jews bury our dead facing the Temple Mount, so at the resurrection it’s the first thing they see. And
long ago, long-dead Muslims blocked up the eastern gates so a Jewish Messiah couldn’t enter there—then buried their bodies on the hillside right beneath the wall to defile the ground.”
“But this is a place of prophecy, too?” Jack inquired, his gaze sweeping over the Old City, trying to visualize it with a gleaming white Temple standing there.
“Right under our feet,” Lev said, pointing to the shadowed canyon. “The Kidron Valley—also called the Valley of Jehoshaphat—was written about by the prophet Joel.”
“Same one who predicted I’d dream dreams and see visions?”
“That’s your guy,” Lev agreed. “Joel 3—‘I will gather all nations and bring them down to the Valley of Jehoshaphat. There I will put them on trial for what they did to my inheritance, my people Israel, because they scattered my people among the nations and divided up my land.’ ”
“Like the UN wanted to do in 1947 and like the world is mostly still trying to do today,” Jack said. “And they don’t even know enough to be terrified.”
“Good point,” Lev agreed.
“And Jesus? He spoke from up here too?”
“Maybe right where we’re standing.”
Jack shivered. After witnessing the confrontation on the mount of temptation, Jack longed to see Jesus again, to be near Him. “Tell me more.”
“This is where Jesus was sitting when His friends asked Him to tell them how to know when He would be coming as King, and how to be ready for the end of the age. He told them there would be wars and rumors of wars, false messiahs, famines and earthquakes, nations fighting each other, persecution and betrayal. . .”
“All sounds pretty dismal,” Jack noted.
“Have you looked at the last 2,000 years? The human record is pretty dismal,” Lev agreed. “But He also said this: ‘This Gospel of the Kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations—and then the end will come.’ ”
The two men stood in silent contemplation for a moment. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed.
Lev resumed. “That’s what we’re all about here, Jack. The gospel started here two thousand years ago. It mostly traveled westward—Europe, Africa, the Americas. But lately it’s making its way through Asia—back here. Full circle. No more Jews and Gentiles—One New Man—home again in Jerusalem.”
