by Ragen, Naomi
Elise was flabbergasted. “Really?”
“A friend of mine—an arms dealer—invited him to dinner and a show at our club. But once he got there, he found a different kind of show . . . That he himself is the star.” She chuckled. “The Israelis, they were waiting for him. They give him—how do you say?—the ‘treatment.’ In the end, he did exactly what we told him.”
“But how did you know who he was, where to find him?”
Esther stepped closer. “I hired a private kidnap service to free Jonathan and liana. They were able to pick up the Hamas person who delivered the videotapes, to threaten him until he talked and admitted who was giving him orders. My granddaughter, Elizabeth, and her husband were also very helpful. They gave us this man’s address and phone number in Paris. Otherwise, it would have taken weeks to track him down.”
“Esther didn’t even mention it, but she spent a fortune on that kidnap service . . .” Leah pointed out.
Esther waved her hand dismissively. “They didn’t do much, believe me. Got themselves arrested and deported by the Israelis. All they wanted to do was help! But you know Israelis . . . they never think they need any help. But at least they got that BCN driver arrested and interrogated. Turns out he wasn’t only picking up those tapes, he was a member of Hamas . . . Who knows how long it would have taken the Israeli politicians to decide to let their army go into Arafat land to pick him up otherwise? And it was your grandson, Maria, who found this out. Milos put himself into real danger. Hamas were recording his calls, tracking him . . .”
Maria shuddered. “But he’s safe now, right?”
“Yes.”
“How did Milos find out?” Elise asked.
“He made friends with that BCN reporter . . . that Julia . . .”
“Julia Greenberg . . . The one I gave the interview to? It was her driver who worked for Hamas?” Elise said in shock.
Leah nodded. “But I don’t think she knew that. You know she was badly injured in today’s bombing on King George Street?”
Elise leaned back, stunned. “I heard there was a bombing . . . I can’t believe it. How terrible!”
Slowly, she leaned back, looking at the four elderly women who milled around her room, letting it all sink in. They’d found the person who knew where Jon and liana were being held and had gotten him into Israeli custody. They’d gotten to the head Hamas operative in Europe, forcing him to move the deadline . . . “You were able to do all this . . .?” She hadn’t taken anything her grandmother said seriously. She felt numb. “I never believed . . . How can I thank you all? Where do I begin?”
Maria kissed Elise on her forehead. “You are our child. liana and Jon, the baby. They are our family.”
“Yes, as if we gave birth to you, compris?”
“When your family is home safely, you may thank us. Until then, we haven’t done anything,” Esther said somberly.
“How is the little one?” Ariana asked, wanting to change the subject.
“Getting a little stronger every day, thank God. He hasn’t had any more problems. And he’s drinking plenty of my milk. He’s going to be fine, God willing. I just know it.”
“Of course he is!
“Nie przejmuj sie!”
“When can we see him, le petit?”
“I think you could probably go now. I’ll just call the nurses and tell them you’re coming.”
“Yes, we will go to see the baby. And then we all want to go to the Kotel. To pray.”
“I guess I’ll only see you all after the Sabbath, then . . .”
“After? Don’t be silly! Where would we spend the Sabbath if not with you and the baby . . .?”
“But . . .”
The women looked at her, smiling.
“It’s all taken care of.”
“They’ll set up a table for us to eat in the lounge outside. We’ll feast on a Sabbath meal of hospital food. All five of us. Dr. Gabbay, God bless him, also got us a room with four beds here in the hospital, so we can spend the night nearby,” Leah explained. “Did you even dream we would leave you here alone, tonight, of all nights?”
“Bubbee . . .” The words wouldn’t come.
“My pride and joy, my Elise”—she stroked the fine young back—”my darling child.” It was all for you, everything I did. For you and for your mother, and uncle and cousins . . . You made it all worth it.
“Is that him?”
“Le petit!”
“A broocha on his kepeleh, little shefeleh, little lamb . . .”
“Jieste retak piekna! So beautiful!”
Ariana stumbled. Maria and Esther caught her. “Come . . .”
“I’ll get her a glass of cold water! Fan her, she’s hot . . .” Leah said frantically.
“It’s all right. It’s nothing. Rien!” Ariana protested.
Esther held her hand. “Seeing babies . . . is that it?”
Ariana squeezed her back. “Tres difficile . . .”
“You heard what Elise said. He is yours too. Without you, he wouldn’t be here.”
“Look at all the tubes, the bandages . . . Will he really be all right? I don’t think I could stand it if anything happened . . . not to this baby . . .” Ariana shook her head.
Leah put her arm around Ariana’s waist. “Come, get up. Look at him again.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Come on . . .”
They stood there, staring at the tiny face. He was putting on weight, Leah thought, amazed. “Look, already he has two cheeks and little pads on his tiny shoulders, and that tuchas . . . what a little tuchasl Someone should take a picture of that tuchas, to embarrass him when he becomes chief rabbi of Israel . . .!”
“This we leave up to you. This is your specialty!” Esther laughed. “Would I take a tuchas picture? Never. This is your idea of a picture. Elizabeth and Morrie in the bathtub . . . A shandah.”
”Look at the eyes, how they look around already!”
His eyes did seem to be focussing, looking at the bright colors of the tiny bear mobile that swam above him.
“Come, Ariana, put your hand in. Touch him.”
“I couldn’t!”
“Come on.”
She took off her big rings and handed them to Esther, then slipped her hand inside the bassinet, her long, wrinkled finger tenderly stroking the child’s tiny, smooth hand. Immediately, his fingers opened, grasping hers.
“Mon Dieu!” she gasped, falling instantly in love. “He is very strong, this little one. Very brave.”
“Like his father,” Leah whispered.
Esther held Leah’s hand. “Like his dear father. May God watch over them both.”
“Amen.” Maria crossed herself.
Leah opened her purse and unwrapped a package.
“What is that?”
“It’s a doll. I bought it in Meah Shearim. See the sidecurls? And the yarmulke? And wait, listen to this.” She pressed his red nose. A small boy’s sweet young voice began reciting the morning prayer in Hebrew: “Modeh Ani . . .” (I am grateful before You, living and everlasting King, for returning my soul to me in Your infinite mercy and faithfulness.)
The women laughed.
“But why is it wearing a dress if it’s wearing a yarmulke? Isn’t it supposed to be a boy?”
“Well . . .” Leah said doubtfully, noticing this for the first time. She examined the label. It said MADE IN CHINA.
“I guess that would explain it.” She placed the doll in the corner of the crib.
“It shouldn’t give him nightmares, such a giant!”
“Or gender confusion,” Esther pointed out.
“Vus?” Leah asked her.
“Never mind . . .”
“Sleep well, little beauty,” Maria whispered. “And may you wake to find yourself in your father’s arms.”
Chapter Thirty-five
The Old City offerusalem
Friday, May 10, 2002
1 :30 P.M.
THEY SAT IN the taxi silently
as it drove toward the Wailing Wall.
Suddenly, Leah turned around from her seat beside the driver, looking at them. “Do you ever think about it?”
There was a gentle rustle in the backseat as the women changed positions.
“I have never, ever stopped,” Ariana whispered. Maria and Esther reached out to her, each enfolding a hand in theirs. “Remember how we all dreamed about the day of liberation? We expected so much joy!”
“Instead, it was like a ton of bricks, tak—” Maria agreed.
“It was that way for everyone. All the pain of all the years, all the losses, all coming back to us at once . . .” Esther shrugged.
“Because we finally allowed ourselves to feel . . . Compris?”
“I thought: Why me?” Leah said softly. “Why was I spared? Was it mazal? Or a reward? But then, if God rewarded me, why did He punish the others, such good people, my mother and father? . . . I thought: I’m alive because someone else died. Because I took the easier work; because I didn’t give them my bread . . .”
“That’s what we all thought.” Esther nodded.
“The guilt.” Ariana nodded.
“The anger.” Maria squeezed her hand. “It was the first time we let ourselves mourn . . .”
They were silent.
“And then we fell over that crate . . .” Esther said, looking around at the others. Maria began to giggle.
Ariana clapped her hands. “Oui! La crate that fell off the German truck!”
Maria howled, covering her mouth with her hand. “And how we pried it open and took out the bottles!”
“What a sight we were, the four of us, standing on that road, skeletons in filthy striped uniforms . . .” Esther laughed, the tears flowing down her cheeks.
“Four hairless skeletons, drinking the most expensive French champagne, toasting each other” Leah sobbed, tears of laughter sweeping down her cheeks as Maria leaned forward to hug her. Ariana and Esther embraced each other, shaking, their stomachs weak with laughter, as they seached for tissues in their pockets, wiping their eyes on their sleeves.
The cab driver looked at them through the rearview mirror, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the sight of four old ladies in hysterics in his taxi.
“When we get back to the hotel, I’m going to order a bottle of the best champagne in the house,” Esther promised. “And don’t any of you dare complain about your diabetes or your cholesterol, or your diet . . .” she warned, blowing her nose. “To life!” she toasted them, raising an imaginary glass. The others joined in, laughing.
“L’chaim.”
“Sauté!”
“Jiestem pijany!”
Leah’s hand suddenly trembled.
Esther leaned forward, putting both hands on her friend’s shoulders. “We will take one drink and save the rest of the bottle for when Jon and liana come home,” she promised.
Leah patted her hands, nodding, her eyes wet. “God willing. Let’s pray.”
The ride only took a few minutes, but as they entered the gateway in the stone wall that separated modern Jerusalem from the ancient city of David and Solomon, they felt they had crossed over in time and were seeing with a different set of eyes.
The driver opened the car door with gentlemanly aplomb. “Kol Hakavod, four savtas who have guts to come. Even Israelis in Tel Aviv are scared,” he said, viewing the old women with genuine admiration.
“Is that true?” Ariana said, looking around nervously.
But the streets belied any sense of danger. They were bustling with life. A group of religious Jewish girls crossed paths with a bevy of their Arab counterparts. How similar they both looked with their long-sleeved, highnecked blouses and midcalf skirts, clutching books and schoolbags, the only visible difference being that the Arab girls covered their hair with scarves, Esther thought. And none of them wore makeup! They watched a bearded Hasidic man stop to buy fragrant, warm pita bread fresh from the oven of an old Arab baker, whose store was tucked inside the stone walls of an ancient building.
It was all totally unexpected, the reality of Jews and Arabs living side by side, a place where peaceful daily intercourse was not the exception—a subject for TV documentaries or news flashes—but the rule. It was simply a way of life. It was a neighborhood, and these were neighbors. With good will, the solution seemed so clear, so simple.
“Jerusalem was King David’s capital, but he never built the Temple. That he left to his son Solomon. It lasted until Nebuchadnezzer of Babylon destroyed the country. That was twenty-five hundred years ago. Saddam Hussein thinks he can do it again!” Leah shook her head. “People don’t understand this about the Jews: we lose and die, yes. But we are also very stubborn. We never give up. We keep coming back here, again and again.”
“Why didn’t they start over someplace else?” Ariana said irritably. “Is it worth all these problems . . . all this fuss?”
“That’s where the French in you comes out!” Maria scolded. “You let the Germans roll into Paris. You don’t fire a shot. If the Americans hadn’t rescued you, you’d all be speaking German.”
“Never!” Ariana protested, shocked.
“Some things you can’t give in to, no matter what. This is the only place in the world that’s ours.”
The women looked at each other with a flash of recognition.
Survive, and rebuild. Because there is no other choice. No place else to go.
“You see this?” Leah pointed to a sign that said: BURNT HOUSE. “The archaeologists found it after ‘sixty-seven. A temple priest once lived there. It was full of ashes—the same ashes from the fires the Romans set when they burned down our temple two thousand years ago. Imagine! They also found the skeleton of a young woman. Maybe his daughter.”
Ashes. Piles of ashes. The burning fires, the fetid smoke. Thousands of young, strong handsome Jewish boys and girls deported in boxcars, starved, murdered, burnt. Because they had no weapons, no country to flee to, no one to protect them.
They watched groups of handsome young men and women in khaki IDF uniforms amble through the square, along with pregnant young Jewish women wheeling baby carriages. Groups of three- and four-year-olds in side curls and knee socks held hands as they walked in twos behind their teacher. Little girls speaking Hebrew rushed across the square, their pony-tails bobbing in the sun.
A place that bubbled with life, a place that grew up over the ashes, the white bones growing young new flesh, like the fulfillment of some Biblical prophecy.
“Come, the Wall is just down here.” Leah guided them.
As they began the long descent down the steps that would lead them to Judaism’s most sacred site, they walked slowly, clutching the handrails. There were hundreds of steps. It was tiring, but fitting, they thought, to reach the Wall only after much effort. A security check, including an airport X-ray machine, screened their bags, and metal-detector wands passed over their bodies before they were allowed to pass through. Then, there it was.
The Wall.
At this level, they realized, the golden Dome of the Rock had all but disappeared from view. They were confronted by the huge ancient stones.
A blank wall. It meant whatever you brought to it. Whatever was in your own soul, Leah thought, wondering what it would mean to these, her dearest friends. Would it be possible for them to connect with this experience at all?
Maria heard the church bells ringing, and then the sound of the muezzin calling the Muslims to prayer. From over the partition separating the men from the women’s section before the Wall came the chanting sounds of a Jewish prayer service.
Mosques and synagogues and churches . . . And all of them started with Abraham. The fews were the big brother of all the other religions, Jesus was his descendant, Isaac and Ishmael his sons. Judaism and Islam and Christianity all had the same father. The same Father.
As they approached the Wall, a band of lady beggars descended upon them from all corners, their eyes glittering with avarice. “Leave us alone. Let us pray in peace,�
�� Leah complained.
“Isn’t that a bit harsh?” Esther whispered, shocked.
“They turn this place into a business. It’s not a business,” she repeated stubbornly. “Let them schnorr someplace else.”
A religious female guard checked them over to see if they were modestly dressed. She offered Esther a scarf to cover her hair.
“No thanks, darling. I come equipped,” Esther said, taking out a large, silk Gucci scarf and tying it around her head.
They took a prayer book out of the pile and made their way one by one to the row of women positioned in touching distance before the gleaming white stones, each searching for and finding a small break in which to squeeze through.
“Out of the depths I cry to you!” Once more, the same cry to heaven, Leah thought. Once more, He is my dear God, whom I cannot see. Can He see me? Here, in this frightful world, still so full of evil, hatred, danger, she thought. And we and our loved ones had no choice but to walk through it every hour we lived. And it made no difference if you were very rich or very poor; if you moved to the Jews’ ancient homeland in the Middle East or stayed put in Brooklyn.
Miriam, my sweet Miriam!
She wept.
Where was the strength to come from that let us risk rebuilding and loving? She wiped her eyes, looking up. The blue-and-white flag of Israel, with its ancient symbol of the six-cornered Star of David, waved above her. A teenager wore a T-shirt that said: DON’T WORRY, BE JEWISH, above a Hasidic-style smiling face with side curls. A beautiful blue-eyed baby sat in a carriage.
“Have mercy on my family, dear God, as You have kept me alive in Your compassion. And whatever happens, give us who live the strength to go on . . .” She caressed the stones tenderly, like a beloved face.
Ariana walked up close, eyeing the tiny prayers crammed into every nook and cranny, left behind by the hands of yearning strangers. I don’t know how to pray, she thought, laying her forehead against the smooth, cool surface. I never even decided if there was a God . . . But if You are up there, I’d like to say this to You: You never gave me a childhood. You never gave me a child. And now I am old. Too old. I am asking You to be fair. Give me the lives of these children: liana and her tiny brother who fights so hard to live. Let them live. Save them from all pain, all harm, if You are as compassionate as they say. She paused, then exhaled. If someone has to suffer and die, then let it be me. My life is over anyway.
