Two policemen hunched over a checkers game in the air-conditioned lobby. The man getting ready to move held a cigarette between his lips, while the other flicked his ashes into a bowl piled perilously with mostly smoked cigarettes.
“Sabah al-kheir,” she greeted them. “I want to see Abu Khaled.”
“Which Abu Khaled?”
Rats. She had hoped Bassam was the only one. But Khaled was a popular name, especially now that Khaled Mashal had risen to prominence as the power behind the new Hamas government.
“Um, ismo Bassam.” His name is Bassam. That should do it. It was unlikely there were two Bassam-Abu Khaleds working in the same ministry. But the men did not appear enlightened.
“Joz Rania Bakara.”
“Ah.”
She had guessed correctly. Rania was more famous than her husband, even in the ministry where he worked. I wonder how he likes that, she thought as the guard picked up the phone. A minute later, a slender, curly-haired man in a perfectly pressed blue shirt walked toward her with his hand out.
“I am Bassam Aamer,” he said in English.
“Marhaba. I am Chloe, Rania’s friend from America. I met you the night I left Palestine.”
“I remember.” Seconds after they entered his modest, windowless office, a secretary appeared with tea. She served it and vanished silently.
“When did you arrive back?” he asked. She was both relieved and disappointed to hear that his English was good. It would have been difficult to have the conversation she needed to have in Arabic, but she was only delaying the inevitable.
“Yesterday,” she answered. “I came as soon as I heard Rania was in prison. Can you tell me what happened?”
“They came in the night. Many soldiers. They surrounded our house. They even woke my mother and forced her to stand outside in the rain.”
She shook her head sympathetically. What he described was not unusual, but that didn’t make it any less appalling.
“I hope she did not get ill.”
“No, she is strong. They searched the house with great violence. Khaled was upset and screaming. One of the soldiers came and shook his rifle in my boy’s face, threatened to hit him if he did not be quiet.”
“Haram,” for shame, Chloe said. She remembered the tow-headed tyke who had grabbed her leg the first time she ever met him and begged her to sleep at his house. She wondered what this early experience of the violence of occupation would do to him.
“They found nothing, of course. But when they were finished, after many hours, they told my wife to get her coat and come with them. She insisted they allow her to dress. I thought they would beat her, but the commander agreed. He tried to stay in the room while she dressed, but she forced him to leave.”
Chloe detected amusement in his voice as he recounted that part, and she smiled too. Rania with a male soldier trying to watch her get dressed was a nonstarter.
“They put metal handcuffs on her, and shackles on her ankles. They blindfolded her in front of my son. He cried for hours after she was gone,” Bassam continued. “We heard nothing for three days. Then, we learned she was at Petah Tikva.”
He paused for that to sink in. Petah Tikva was an interrogation center, run by the dreaded Israeli secret police. Bassam well knew the tortures that went on in those centers, having been held there himself during the First Intifada.
“After one week, they moved her to Ramle.”
“Well, that’s better, right?” Actually, Chloe wasn’t sure if it was better. Ramle was a regular prison, not an interrogation center. It was safer, but probably it meant that she was being held under a legal detention order, which would make it harder to get her out. “Did she have a hearing on the detention order?”
“Her lawyer said the judge signed the order, but there was no hearing.”
“Has he filed an appeal?”
“Not yet. He is going to.”
“What’s he waiting for? It’s been two weeks already.”
Bassam gave his elegant shrug again. “He has a lot of cases. Many others were arrested at the same time.”
Chloe tried to remember that, in Palestine, everyone has loved ones in prison. Anyone could be spirited away on an administrative detention order, held without charge for six months, and then another six, and another. But this wasn’t anyone; this was Rania, her friend, the only woman detective in the northern West Bank. She and Bassam knew lots of people in powerful positions in the Palestinian Authority. Why wasn’t Bassam using their connections to jump to the head of the line?
“Would you give me the lawyer’s phone number?” she asked. “I have some Israeli friends who might be able to help. But they will need some information from the lawyer.”
She produced the little notebook she had brought from California for this purpose and opened it to the first page. He wrote the name and number in English, fortunately, since she could never remember which Arabic number was which.
“Can Rania have visitors?” Chloe asked.
Bassam’s face took on a pained look. “She can have. I tried to get a permit, but I could not.”
Chloe nodded. It was rare that men under fifty could get permits to go into Israel, even for life-saving medical procedures.
“Her sister got a permit,” Bassam said. “She took Khaled with her. My wife refused to see them.”
“Why would she do that? Is she on bad terms with her sister?”
He shook his head vigorously, making his hair flop into his eyes again. Chloe wondered if Rania usually cut it for him. “She told the lawyer she did not want Khaled to see her in prison.”
“I guess I can understand that,” Chloe said.
“I do not think it is the real reason,” he said. “I think she is afraid that if she sees him, she will not be able to be strong.”
“You mean, she fears she might give information?” Chloe could not believe that. She had always wondered if she herself would be able to hold up under torture, but she had never doubted her ability to withstand mental pressure. And Rania was much stronger and more determined than she was. She needed to be, to survive the life she had chosen.
“Perhaps.” He clearly didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He took out his wallet and handed her a business card. “Please call me if you need anything.”
“I will call you when I know something,” she said with more confidence than she felt.
“Thank you for helping my wife,” he said.
“It’s the least I can do,” Chloe said. “She saved my life last time I was here.”
Too late, she realized that Rania might not have told him exactly how close she and Chloe had both come to being shot. But he only shook her hand.
Chloe settled on a low stone wall near the ministry and fished out her phone. She dialed the very first number in her address book.
“This is Avi. I am out of the country. Please don’t leave a message.”
“Shit!” It had never occurred to her that Avi wouldn’t be in Israel. She had not been surprised when he did not answer her email—he rarely did. For an accomplished hacker and web designer, he had a surprising distaste for electronic communication. She had counted on his connections and language skills to help her free Rania.
Her second choice answered immediately.
“Chloe!” Nehama’s voice could probably be heard wherever Avi was. “When did you get back?”
Chloe quickly explained how and why she had returned. She omitted having used Nehama’s name. No need to expose herself for a shameless user.
“Where are they holding her?” Nehama asked when Chloe finished her recitation.
“Neve Tirzah.” She gave the official name of the women’s prison at Ramle.
“Is she in administrative detention?”
“I don’t think so. She was moved there two weeks ago from Petah Tikva. If there was an administrative detention order for her, she would have had a hearing, right?”
“Supposed to be, but you never know. Does she have a lawye
r?”
“Yeah, a guy from the Prisoner’s Club.” She gave Nehama the name Bassam had given her.
“He’s very famous,” Nehama said. “The best there is.”
“He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get her out.”
“He has a lot of cases,” Nehama said, just as Bassam had.
“Well, I only care about this one.”
“Look,” Nehama said. “I have some contacts in the army, from the checkpoint work.” Nehama was part of Machsom Watch, a women’s group that monitored the many West Bank checkpoints. “I can try to get some information about why they arrested her and if they are planning to charge her. But I don’t think I’ll be able to get her released.”
“Whatever you can find out will be great.” Chloe tried to swallow her disappointment. She shouldn’t have imagined that one phone call would put her on the road to Rania’s freedom. She just couldn’t think what else she had in her bag of tricks.
Chapter 7
Rania was curled up in the fetal position on her cot. She could not get comfortable. Her arm was not broken, but it sent agonizing shock waves through her body whenever she moved it. So, she had barely moved from her cot since they finished beating her. She had heard them bring breakfast and lunch and take them away, uneaten, a few hours later. Tali Ta’ali had tried to talk to her once, but she had not responded.
She had not imagined they would react so violently to her little act of rebellion. A small miscalculation to add to the huge one that had landed her here.
She heard the boots on the ground that meant someone was coming to bring more food she did not want. It sounded like Tali’s lively gait. She closed her eyes, as if that would protect her from the nauseating smell of boiled chicken. She heard the tray sliding on the cement floor and waited for the footsteps to recede. But they were not receding. Tali was standing at her cell door. She made an effort to still her breathing, so Tali would think she was asleep.
“I brought you something,” the girl said in Hebrew.
“I know,” Rania said in English, her voice muffled by the mattress. “Leave it.”
Maybe she would eat this time after all. She felt woozy from lack of nourishment, but that was sort of helpful for her project of not thinking about what her life was going to be. But the food actually smelled kind of appetizing, so that might mean that she wanted to stay alive. She thought there was some kind of sweet potato on the tray. She would see how she felt once the annoying woman left her alone.
“It will not fit underneath,” Tali said, in English this time. “You need to come take it.”
Tali was not going to go away, Rania decided. She flipped over gingerly, but not gingerly enough. She yelped with pain before she could stop herself.
“Are you okay?” Tali asked. Rania was sitting up now, and she dragged herself to her feet.
“No, I am not okay,” she said. She walked slowly to the bars, holding her right arm to her side with her left hand. “Your friends beat me very badly.”
“I am sorry about that.” I bet you are, Rania started to say, but she did not. Something in Tali’s tone of voice made her think that maybe, just maybe, she really was sorry. She looked at the girl’s face more closely than she had ever done before. The heavy freckles were distracting, but, other than that, she was pretty. She did not wear as much makeup as most Israeli policewomen did. It occurred to her that she didn’t even know whether Tali was a soldier or a policewoman.
“Are you in the army or the police?” she asked.
“I am both,” Tali said. “This is my army service, but I am working in the police.”
“Is this what you wanted to do?” Rania asked.
“No. I wanted to be in the border police. The women here are so sad. Sometimes, I cry with them.”
Rania considered that. The border police were the worst of the worst in her experience. They roamed around the border areas, which included her village, taunting the young men until they threw stones at their jeeps, and then they shot at them. If that was what Tali would rather be doing, she did not think she wanted to be friendly with her after all. Tali held out a book with a battered spine. Rania reached through the bars with her right arm and again let out a muffled cry.
“Do you want a doctor?” the police-soldier-woman asked.
“No.” Of that, Rania was sure. She would not be less brave than her father. But she dropped the right arm carefully to her side and took the book with her left hand. It was heavier than she expected, and she was off-balance because of her injured arm. She dropped the book, and it fell open. She crouched down to retrieve it. It was in Hebrew and Arabic, and when she got closer, she saw it was a textbook.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I asked one of the Arab policemen who works here,” Tali said. “He brought it from home.”
“Tell him I said, ‘Shukran,’” Rania said. The thought of a real book to study from cheered her enormously. Something had fallen out of the book. It was her red sock. She looked through the pages and found the other two as well.
“That was nice of you,” she said to Tali. She was having to do a lot of attitude adjustment rather rapidly. It was making her head spin.
“Tell me something,” Tali said. “Why do you want to make trouble for us?”
Rania was flummoxed. She didn’t even really know how to start answering that question. Why wouldn’t I? was the obvious answer, but, if she said that, Tali would not understand.
“I do not,” she said. “I only wanted to show that I love my country, just like you love yours.”
“But it is not the same. You want to kill us.”
“How can you say that? It is your people who are always killing mine, not the other way around.”
“Let me tell you a story,” Tali said. Rania was tired of standing at the bars. She retreated to her cot and sat on the edge, opposite Tali. It was not like they were at eye level even standing up. The Israeli woman had at least six inches on her.
“My grandfather was from Hebron,” the policewoman said.
Rania knew what was coming.
“His family was very religious. In 1929, they had just sat down to their Shabbat meal, when Arabs smashed the door with a hatchet and broke into the house. After they broke all the china dishes, they took his small brother out into the yard and cut off his head with a sword. My grandfather would have been killed as well, but he managed to escape to a neighbor’s house and hid until the next day.”
How did Tali’s grandfather feel, Rania wondered, about having escaped and hidden while his little brother was beheaded? If the story was even true. Practically every Israeli she’d ever met claimed a personal connection to that well-documented incident, even those whose ancestors were somewhere in Poland when it had occurred.
“I am also from the Hebron area, which we call al-Khalil,” Rania said. “So, you see, we are countrywomen.” Tali tipped her chin in acknowledgment.
“I come from a village called Beit Natif,” Rania continued. “My family was famous for making tiles. They had many Jewish customers, and some became friends. During the violence of 1936, my family hid two Jewish families in their home for weeks. They lived as members of our family. Then in ’48, the Israeli army came to our village. The father of one of the families who had hidden in my grandfather’s house? He set the fire that burned Beit Natif to the ground.”
“You must be exaggerating,” Tali said. “How can you be from that village, if it was burned to the ground?”
Why did she even bother talking to this woman? She was like all Israelis, seeing only what they wanted to see.
“I do not live there,” Rania said. “The Jewish National Fund took it and planted a forest. Later they built some Jewish settlements on some of our land. I grew up in a refugee camp about thirty minutes driving from there. But Beit Natif is my village. Someday we will return there and rebuild our home.”
“What about the people who live in the settlements?” Tali asked. “If you return, where
would they go?”
“Why should I worry about them?” Rania asked. “We were there first.”
She saw doubt and fear in Tali’s face. She did not want to talk about this anymore. She tried to believe with all her heart that her family and the rest of their people would get their land back some day. But she was not a fool. The evidence of her eyes told her that the Israelis were building more and more every day. It had been years since anyone in Aida had been to Beit Natif. She had no idea what it looked like now.
“Thank you for the book,” she said. She looked down at the pages so that Tali would leave. After a few seconds, she heard the boots clicking back down the corridor.
Chapter 8
Chloe could think of only one other person who might have relevant information. She found a cab and headed to Qalandia checkpoint.
By ten thirty in the morning, everyone who was going to work or school had either gotten through or given up. The soldiers lounged against the burlap sandbags that lined the corrugated tin structure, drinking from paper cups and flipping through magazines.
Chloe extracted a green, plastic folder from her back pocket and passed it through the little metal window to a helmeted woman soldier. The woman looked from the folder back to Chloe and did a double take. Chloe was used to that.
“What is it?” the soldier woman asked in English.
“Open it and you’ll see,” she said.
The soldier reluctantly did so. They always did that, as if suspecting it would explode in their hands. Chloe braced herself for the woman’s angry reaction. Of course, she had her real passport on her. She would never get into Neve Tirzah without it. But she always tried to go through checkpoints with a copy in a Palestinian ID folder. It was a tiny act of solidarity with the people who were forced to carry these green folders that confined their movements to ever-tinier enclaves. Just now, a woman with four small kids and at least twenty bulging plastic bags grinned at Chloe as she lined up behind her.
“Hai hawiyyatik?” That’s your ID? asked the woman behind her.
Murder Under the Fig Tree Page 5
