Never Again

by Harvey A. Schwartz

  “And one more point,” the president added. “Based on the legal advice I’ve received, I will be submitting a request to Congress tomorrow for legislation affirming the revocation of federal court jurisdiction for all claims brought by enemy combatants, confirming that the law that brought to an end all those lawsuits by Guantanamo detainees years ago applies to present enemy combatants, too.”

  Jewish grandmothers are now enemy combatants locked behind razor wire, McQueeney thought. What comes next?

  CHAPTER 32

  No buses this time. The 1164th Transportation Company of the Massachusetts Army National Guard pulled up at the loading dock of the Agganis Arena with its fleet of five-ton trucks, plus three tractor trailers. With barely a half-hour’s notice, the 4,000 people who inhabited the basketball stadium picked up what few belongings they had, mostly items purchased for them by host families in their brief period of freedom, and were loaded into the trucks.

  The job was a simple one for the seventy-five Guardsmen. They were trained to move thousands of soldiers across long distances. This time, their drive was just an hour and a half to Camp Edwards on Cape Cod.

  The camp commander was Army lieutenant colonel Ted Dancer, who served briefly as deputy commander of the detention facility at Guantanamo Bay. After the last truck was unloaded, an announcement over the public address system said there would be an assembly of all detainees on the parade ground at four that afternoon.

  People interrupted their settling in process to attend the meeting. It was a warm, sunny day. Breaking surf could be heard above the slight breeze. Children were anxious to explore along the shore. The former passengers of the Iliad and the Ionian Star were relieved to move from the oppressive stadium. They were anxious about what would come next.

  They noted the rows of freshly-painted barracks buildings, the mess hall, and the collection of buildings surrounded by barbed wire fencing. This facility had a distressing sense of permanency to it.

  That fear was driven home by the camp commander.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, by order of the president of the United States, you have each been declared to be an enemy combatant subject to the exclusive jurisdiction of the United States military,” Dancer announced. “It is the intention of the United States to detain you in this facility, or any other facility the United States so desires, for the duration of the present hostilities, however long they may last.

  “You are entitled to all of the rights of persons holding the status of enemy combatants. Those rights include the following:

  “You have the right to receive reasonable meals sufficient to maintain minimal good health.

  “You have the right to reasonable medical care for life-threatening illness and injuries.

  “You have the right not to be subjected to life-threatening torture or mistreatment.”

  A murmur started up from the rear of the assemblage. Someone near the front of the crowd began shouting.

  “Ah’m not doing shit until ah see mah lawyer,” a man shouted, his Southern accent out of place. “Ah demand to see mah lawyer, now.”

  The crowd became louder, others joining the man in the front demanding to meet with their lawyers—not that they actually had lawyers.

  BANG!

  The crowd was startled into silence by the shot fired into the air from the pistol in the camp commander’s hand.

  “Let’s get something clear from the start,” Dancer said into the microphone. “This is a military camp, a detention camp. You people are military detainees. You don’t get lawyers. You don’t go to court. You don’t even dream about suing me or anybody else. You don’t like how we treat you, then tough fucking shit. The president declared you enemy combatants. He did that because you killed American military personnel. And sank our vessels. And then ran into hiding. You are enemies of the United States of America. You will be treated like enemies.

  “Get used to it. That is how life is going to be. This meeting is concluded. Troops, see that this crowd disperses to their barracks.”

  Dancer stepped down from the platform and walked to his office, accompanied by his second in command.

  “I thought that went quite well,” Dancer said.

  “I was not briefed about carrying firearms, sir,” the second in command said. “It certainly did get their attention, though.”

  “There will be no firearms carried. I wanted to make a point, that’s all. We won’t need firearms to keep these people under control. Didn’t carry firearms at Gitmo and we had some tough people there—some of them, anyway. We worked things out on our own.” He smiled, as if remembering his introduction to detention of enemy combatants fondly. Dancer placed an arm around the young captain’s shoulder. “Let me tell you about E-R-F-ing, Captain. Do you know what ERFing is?” Dancer saw the puzzled look on his assistant’s face.

  “A little method we came up with at Guantanamo. E-R-F. Emergency Reaction Force. Pick the ten biggest goons we’ve got. Dress ’em up in black, from ski mask to boots. Give ’em body armor, the full suit, and Kevlar shields, helmets, batons. They’d scare the shit out of a sumo wrestler. Ten of them come screaming into a room, waving their batons, clanging on their shields, the detainees shit their drawers, they do. That’s ERFing. Pick the men. I’ll train them myself. And if our guests don’t like it, let them cry to the lawyers they won’t be meeting with.”

  “Guantanamo? That must have been quite an experience.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. But I learned some lessons there. Kind of ironic, though. Arabs there. Jews here. Will be interesting to see if there’s any difference between them. My money is on them all being the same.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Abram Goldhersh sounded excited on the telephone. “Chaim, we need to meet, right away. I’m sending somebody to pick you up. His name is Mr. Gimel. Remember that. He won’t introduce himself. You ask him his name. He’ll say Gimel. If he doesn’t, don’t get in the car.”

  Levi told Debra Reuben about the telephone call.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Levi answered.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who will you be with?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why does he need to see you, at least?”

  “Debra, I just don’t know. I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. Please, enough with the questions.”

  “If you don’t know anything, why are you going away? I don’t understand. It could be dangerous for you out there.” Levi sensed the concern in her voice. He answered carefully.

  “First, it isn’t dangerous for me. I’m nobody out there. Nobody has the slightest idea who I am. What I am. Why I’m here. It’s perfectly safe for me to leave this house.

  “Second, why am I going? Because I’m bored out of my head sitting around here all day watching television and waiting for something to happen. At least other people are doing things, even if they are childish things like parades that will be forgotten in a week. Debra, with all that’s happening, what are we doing? Bubkes, that’s what.”

  She smiled at the Israeli’s use of the Yiddish word for “nothing.” Secular Israelis avoided Yiddish just as African-Americans avoided Amos-and-Andy-isms like “massuh.” Reuben enjoyed dropping the occasional Yiddish into her speech. It reminded her of her grandmother.

  Levi must be softening up.

  “Okay,” she said. “Maybe I’m paranoid. But be careful. Anyway, I’ve been thinking of going to Washington with Sarah.” A smile spread across her face. “It’s going to make history. A million American Jews in one place. What a trip it would be to be there.”

  Levi looked at her. Stunned.

  “Forget that,” he said. “Look, I’m going out in secret, quietly, making no fuss. Nobody in this country has ever heard of me. You’re different. Don’t forget who you are. You were on TV, here and there. You were in the government. You have a face people don
’t forget. You’re beautiful.”

  Chaim thinks I’m beautiful.

  “What will you do when they point you out, Debra?”

  Reuben frowned.

  “Actually, Sarah is on the steering committee for the march. She’s going to be speaking. She asked me to think about speaking. I’m a representative, maybe the only representative, of the government of Israel, you know.” Reuben pictured herself addressing a crowd of a million Jews gathered in Washington.

  “You’ll be in handcuffs before you say three words,” he said. “When they hold Israel responsible for Damascus, who do you think they’ll arrest first?”

  Her face paled. “Nobody knows I did that,” she whispered. “Nobody but you, and me.” She stepped to Levi, throwing her arms around him, clutching him tightly, dropping her head to his shoulder. He held her for several minutes, softly rubbing her hair, holding her tightly against his chest. Her breathing deepened, then slowed, as she absorbed his strength, flowing from his body to hers. This man has enough strength for the two of us, she hoped.

  Levi gently pushed her away.

  “Debra, they don’t have to know they picked the right person. They’ll take whoever they can get. Do you think you can stand up, identify yourself and then walk away? That won’t happen.”

  “They won’t know it was me,” she whispered. “And we had the right to defend ourselves. We didn’t drop the first bomb. People will understand. We were defending our country. Who could hold Israel, or me, responsible for that?”

  “Shall we start a list?” Levi said. “Maybe a billion or so Muslims who believe that taking your head off buys them a ticket to paradise. Maybe the United Nations. Or how about the World Court? Feel like standing trial in Brussels for murdering a hundred thousand people in Damascus? Or maybe even your own United States. Remember what you told me about five-dollar-a-gallon gasoline? Think turning you over for trial in Syria might buy a few million barrels of oil?”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. Looking her full in the face, he continued.

  “The name of the game for you is invisible. Low profile is too high. Your days of giving speeches are over. You made that decision months ago.”

  Reuben was stunned. She’d never truly comprehended the global implications of her role in the Damascus bombing. She’d considered it her personal demon, the tormentor who would never let her forget what she had done. She’d punished herself. She hadn’t considered that other people, millions of people, would want to join in. She broke into tears, quietly at first. Louder and louder until she lost all control as she struggled for breath.

  “The best hope we have is finding somebody who can give us new identities, and maybe new faces to go with them,” Levi said. “So, no Washington? No speeches? You’ll watch it on TV, okay? And I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

  A car pulled into the driveway, a Honda Accord sedan. A man in his early twenties behind the wheel. A yarmulke on his head. He remained in the car as Levi walked up to the driver’s door. The window rolled down.

  “And your name is?” Levi asked.

  “Gimel,” the man answered. “Shalom. Get in the car.”

  Debra Reuben let the curtain fall back over the kitchen window as she watched the car drive away. Be careful, Chaim, she thought. She poured Bacardi over three ice cubes in a tall glass. She’d stopped adding Coke.

  Gimel headed south down the Maine coast toward Portland, Maine’s largest city. Neither spoke for the first two hours. Finally, as the car drove through Freeport and Levi craned his neck to stare at the complex of buildings that made up the retail store for L.L.Bean, which even he’d heard about in Israel, Gimel could no longer contain himself.

  “I hear you’re IDF,” he said excitedly. “From Eretz Yisrael.”

  Levi nodded but said nothing.

  “Abram said you’re going to train us, teach us,” the young man continued. “That’s why I’m taking you there. We must do something; we just have to. And we have to do it soon.”

  The young man turned his head to look at Levi.

  “I’m willing to give my life for Israel,” he said.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” Levi barked. “How much longer until we’re there, wherever there is?”

  “I’m sorry,” Gimel said. “I know. Don’t talk. Silence. I can keep secrets, military secrets. We’re almost there, maybe another half hour.”

  The remainder of the drive passed in silence until the car left the highway and drove through a waterfront industrial area with aging brick warehouse buildings set back from the water. They stopped in front of a brick building no different from dozens of others along the docks. The two men entered an unmarked door.

  Inside was a small office with a single desk. The desktop was empty. No papers. No lamp. Not even a telephone. There was no chair behind the desk. Abram Goldhersh sat on the desk, eating a sub sandwich, his beard smeared with tuna and mayonnaise.

  “Ah, Levi, welcome to the world headquarters of Maccabee Trading Corporation,” he said. Turning to the young man, he asked, “No problems getting here, right? Nobody following you?”

  “No problems,” Gimel replied. “Are the others here?”

  “They’re inside, with the equipment,” Goldhersh said. “Come on, Levi, let me show you our product line, this business of mine.”

  The three men entered the cavernous interior of the building. Dim light seeped through dirt-encrusted windows high on one wall. The space was gloomy, chilly, damp. A bare bulb illuminated two men sitting in folding chairs next to three metal drums, the size of fifty-five-gallon oil drums.

  The two men appeared to be in their early twenties. As with Gimel, both wore small yarmulkes on their heads. Except for that indicator, they were dressed as indescribably as most members of their generation—jeans baggy enough to conceal a brick in their pockets, shirts that looked as if they were purchased for a dollar at the Salvation Army store hanging outside their pants. They stood when Goldhersh and Levi approached. Goldhersh spoke first.

  “This is the man I told you about,” he said. “He can be trusted.” He turned to Levi. “This is Aleph.” Goldhersh gestured toward one man, who nodded silently. “And this is Bet.”

  Levi nodded.

  “This”—Goldhersh pointed toward the three steel drums—“is what I was telling you about. What I managed to obtain and was prepared to ship off to Israel. I take it you know what this is, right?”

  Levi walked to the drums and inspected writing stenciled on the outside.

  KAI ZE QIEN GO INDUSTRIAL CO., LIMITED, Jinan City, Shandong, China 250000.

  CAUTION.

  MilSpec: MIL-C-45010A

  HSE Serial number: 32-A-68450

  RDX content: 91 ± 1%

  Polyisobutylene plasticiser: 9 ± 1%

  Moisture: 0.1% max

  Velocity of Detonation: 8092 ± 26 m/s

  Density: 1.63 g/cm3

  Colour: Nominally white

  TNT equivalence: 118%

  Chemical marking for detection: Marked

  Shelf life: At least 10 years under good conditions.

  The top of one barrel was pushed partially to the side. Levi lifted the electric light, held it over the drum and looked inside. He whistled quietly.

  “You could do damage with this,” he said to Goldhersh. “Of course, without detonators, it’s just modeling clay.”

  To demonstrate, he reached into the barrel and scooped out a handful of light-gray material the consistency of putty. He molded it between his hands like a snowball, something he’d heard of but never actually seen.

  “See,” he said, tossing the ball from hand to hand. “I trained with this stuff. It’s practically inert.” He spread his hands and let the ball fall to the concrete floor. All three young men cringed as it splattered on the floor with a thud. Goldhersh was unmoved.

  “I know that,” he said, speaking to Levy. “I wasn’t able to obtain military-grade detonators. You’d think they would be easier to buy than the ex
plosive, but I tried and couldn’t get any. I must have tried twenty blasting supply companies, but they all wanted to see my explosives permit.”

  One of the young men, Mr. Aleph, interrupted. “I told Abram I could take care of a detonator,” he said, with a slight smile. “All it needed was a lot of heat in a little space in a very short time. It didn’t take me long. Abram was looking in the wrong stores. I just went where I go shopping for everything else. The mall.”

  He removed a box that said Blast Off Flight Pack from a shopping bag labeled Mostly Maine Hobbies. Dumping the box on the lid of one of the sealed drums, two dozen small cylinders rolled out, each about four inches, made of rolled brown paper. They had hard clay caps at one end and an odd, cone-shaped indentation at the other, with a small hole through the center of the indentation. They looked, to Levi, like unusual shotgun cartridges.

  Estes Industries Model A8-3 Model Rocket Engine was written on the side of each cylinder. The box also contained short lengths of wire bent into U shapes with a bit of some material at the bend of the U. Finally, the young man removed a small, black, plastic rectangular box with two wires ending in alligator clips coming from one end. A label said Estes Industries Electron Launch Controller.

  “Cost me almost fifty dollars,” he said, beaming. “These are model rocket engines. The wires are electrical igniters. Stick the wire in the hole at the end of the engine. Hook up a battery and the igniter wires to the controller, push the launch button and, boom, the engine ignites and hot flames shoot out the end. There are your detonators.”

  Goldhersh turned to Levi.

  “Will it work?”

  Levi recalled the digital electronic detonators he’d trained with in the navy in mock raids in rubber boats. These toys were far from the sophisticated devices he’d used. Nonetheless, he was impressed.