Don't show me your gun

 

Netanela shifted her laptop bag from one shoulder to the other. The evening sun was flooding downtown Jerusalem with soft pink shadows. She had perhaps a quarter of an hour for window shopping, before Sarina was going to show up. The lights over Jaffa Street and the light railway line flickered on, reflected in the advancing purple blanket of the night. Looking up, Netanela almost tripped over the wire laid down by a street vendor, who was busy retrieving delicious-smelling pieces of corn on the cob from a giant electric pot. Over his head, a large speaker was blasting out “Bailando”, and the vendor’s hands seemed to be dancing in tune. Soon, very soon, the chilly autumn breeze will grow into winter storms, and the windows of every Jewish home will broadcast the flickering message of Chanuka miracle. She walked briskly past the bakery and the toy shop, then slowed down for the clothes shop. Turning into the pedestrian area, she fancied having a cone of chips, they smelled so delicious, but it really wouldn’t do to let her former classmate see her consuming junk. In school, Netanela had been a perfectionist, a high achiever and a social leader, only to find her dreams shattered a year after graduation by a skiing accident that caused a minor haemorrhage in her brain. She got most of her functions back, but not the ability to focus. Now in her late thirties, she was struggling through a social work degree in a nearby college. Alas, some things in life had to be just accepted, like those everlasting headaches.

Sarina was visiting from America, and there was really no better place to meet in all of Jerusalem than Ben Yehuda Street. Netanela sat down at a table by the famous Katsefet ice cream shop, and just waited.

Sarina ran up, her long blonde hair flying in the gusts of the chilly wind that every sunset brings to the North-to-South oriented streets of Jerusalem. Netanela frowned at how the waiter at the Rimon café across the road was eyeing her friend, measuring her head to toe. Well, there was definitely something to measure – Sarina still had a perfect body, despite having two kids and living a life of leisure with her second husband. Her own small frame was swallowed up in Sarina’s powerful hug, and Netanela recalled something about her friend serving in the military.

They settled down to three scoops of coffee, chocolate and pistachio to share, and all the stories that had not been told in fifteen years. Sarina’s children, a son and a daughter, attended a lucrative high school, with offered an Olympic-size swimming pool, horseback riding in the vast grounds, in a circle between the shadowy oak wood and the little lake with swans, and even a crash course in law, complete with all the Latin terms. Netanela sighed – one of the things her accident claimed was the hope of an easy motherhood. A pregnancy might bring on another stroke – and even though it was her decision to make, she hadn’t dared just yet to risk her life for a being that would depend on her for the next twenty years. “Don’t be silly,” – Sarina tried to comfort her. – “They are really needy only for the first five years or so.” Netanela burst out laughing. “As if that’s so reassuring.”

She continued to analyse her friend’s perfect nails and make up, inhaling her perfume, wondering if she should perhaps make some changes to her own looks. Jeans are hardly feminine… if only she could radiate sex appeal in all directions like Sarina… Then she chuckled at her own thoughts. As if this powerful message her friend broadcasted could be ascribed to any one detail – make up, or perfume, or clothes. Sarina was loved, that's all.

Netanela began recounting her most recent tale of woe with her father’s deteriorating health, when she realized that Sarina was not looking at her. In fact, she was staring, wide-eyed, somewhere beyond her back, and looking terrified. Almost as if by command, the pulsing energy of the she-wolf in heat was replaced by a steely demeanour of a combat soldier. In one swift leap Sarina flew over the barrier that separated the ice cream shop from the café, heals and all, and pulled Netanela after her. “Come! Before he spots you!”- and she ducked down again. Looking up in the direction her friend indicated, Netanela saw a young Israeli soldier with a combat rifle. Well, she knew he was a soldier, even though he was not wearing his uniform. Living in Israel, you just know. His freckled face, curly reddish hair and the casual habit of throwing his gun over his buttocks identified him unmistakably as “one of our boys”. Furthermore, he had the usual chain with his ID number on a metal plate hanging off his neck, just like all the other soldiers.

“Don’t be silly! He’s just a soldier!” – Netanela whispered. The last thing she wanted was attention to her friend’s strange behaviour, and people were already beginning to turn their heads. Jerusalem was full of madmen, but usually they also looked strange… unlike Sarina. She noticed that her friend was shaking. “Come on, seriously! It’s OK!”

“But he’s got a gun! Can’t you see?” – she panted, her body still gathered up by a well-practiced fight or flight response.

“So what! It’s just a soldier! You are acting weird!”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am! Look!”

The soldier, in the meantime, took his falafel from the seller and started wolfing it down, opening his mouth wide for every bite, pieces of the finely-chopped salad and pita littering the ground between his white sneakers.

Sarina peeked cautiously over the barrier, then ducked again. Her breaths became even more rapid. She was shaking.

Netanela decided to give up on any ridiculous propriety, and settled down on the still warm pavement next to her friend. “Do you really think a terrorist would treat himself to a last meal right in front of us all?” – she offered. “Why the hell not?” – Sarina answered. - “You don’t understand. They would explode a barrel of fuel in front of us, and whoever didn’t jump fast enough, was burnt.” – she continued.

“In Iraq?”

“Yeah…”

“Who is they?”

But there was no answer, Sarina’s teeth were clattering and she could not find her voice.

“In Israel, people with guns mean safety. When I see a soldier, I know I am protected”.

Sarina ignored that. Then, in a small shaking voice, she continued:

“My friend Aria. We were deployed in Basra. Operation “Charge of the Knights”. Mortars falling everywhere.” – Sarina stopped for a breath. “We were forced to pull back to the airport. Aria stepped on a mine just as she turned to tell me to hurry up, so I saw everything. The shock on her face. She just looked so damn surprised. And she kept on trying to reach her gun. Just to grab it, at any cost. Her arm… Her gun…” – Sarina swallowed hard. Netanela passed her a water bottle, and watched her friend’s shaking hand struggling to find her mouth.

“Did she survive?”

“Are you kidding me? We couldn’t see the air for shelling. There was no way to evacuate her.”

Then she added reluctantly, “My daughter is named after her, so this way she is always with me.”

Netanela was silent, remembering her own experiences. The day when a bomb went off in the shuk, not even a kilometer from here, and she had been on the bus two streets down. The day when… and another. More… the faces in the news. The wailing mothers, fathers and brothers contorted by grief, shown in every detail by the national TV. The way Israel holds its collective breath, waiting for the names, knowing full well it will happen again. And again. Is that really why she was delaying her pregnancy?

They sat in silence for a while.

Netanela pulled her friend up from behind the barrier. The soldier was long gone, without ever becoming aware of the commotion he caused. The ice cream had melted, and an emaciated stray cat was licking up the mess.

“My kids cover me up. They know when I’m about to freak, and hide me – in public bathrooms, in the car…” – Sarina hugged herself to stop the shaking.

Netanela was puzzling over her thoughts just a few minutes ago. Hair and nails? That’s all people see, huh. And she was no better.

“Tell me how it really was for you. From the beginning, and don’t miss out anything. If it would help.”

 

Turning heads

 

Tirtza was late for work, as usual. Only by a few minutes, but at some point, they were bound to notice. As always, her skirt could not be made to match her shoes and blouse, and she changed three times before she found a combination she liked. A pile of discarded items, turned inside-out, mounted up on her bed. Hastily giving her baby, David, a kiss on his freckled little nose, she reminded her husband that the nursery required three full bottles, a bag of diapers, and … “I know, I know,” – he shrugged away her reminders, swung his laptop bag over one shoulder, the diaper bag over the other, and waved her away. “Come on, don’t be late again!”

Now, rushing up towards the light rail station, she allowed her thoughts to wander. Had someone told her a few years ago that she would be living in a busy neighbourhood in South Jerusalem, married and with a baby, and dressing like a nineteenth-century matron in checkered skirts and tight-at-the-neck tops, and the worst of it all – a wig! - she would have laughed to tears. Just behind her left shoulder blade nestled a blue butterfly, a tattoo she got just two years ago in Goa, and a closer look at her nose would reveal a barely healed nose ring hole. Somewhere in her story there were a ‘trip’ gone wrong at a Chabad house in Mumbai, a mysterious Buddhist monk who physically threw her out of the way of a raging elephant, witnessing a botched armed robbery she escaped with merely a nosebleed, and a few more private, but nevertheless enchanting memories of events that made her feel as if just behind a curtain, if only she could reach with her hand and slide it away to peek beyond – was some kind of an otherworldly mystery would reveal itself in all its glory. Remembering her great-grandmother’s stories of separate dishes and candle lighting, she enrolled herself in a seminary in Jerusalem just as the confounded virus began to devastate America. Her wedding was nothing much, certainly nothing like she ever imagined, but a happy enough event nevertheless, really it would be a sin to complain, she added dutifully.  She shrugged at her own thoughts, and continued her way up the steep hill.

Walking on Agrippas street, she couldn’t resist peeking at the prices of meat in the window of the famous butcher. Rosh Hashana was coming up, and her husband’s parents were coming for a meal. Not just a meal, mind you, but the most important one of all, the first night, where a selection of symbols had to be served and eaten with proper blessings to ensure a sweet and prosperous year. The main symbol – she knew - was a sheep’s head. She shuddered. If only they would settle down for a fish head, a revolting bitter deal wrapped in silver foil, but at least small and well-hidden. But no… the Sefardi customs were different. The butcher had a deal on all kinds of heads, of course, except ISIS heads, she chuckled to herself. If she got one now, she could keep it in the fridge at work, thankfully, schools here always had a fridge, albeit often stuffed with furry yoghurts sharing a shelf with bottles of breast milk. Holding the package as far from her body as she dared, she began walking down into the valley towards the Sacher park. The morning was pleasant enough for early September, but still the sticky sweat began accumulating already between her thighs and breasts. Luckily, a cloud covered the sun for a few minutes, and she breathed with relief. The package in her hand was still bringing on unhealthy musings about how exactly this animal part came to be in the shop. She imagined humans with sheep heads, then sheep with human heads… a sheepy Centaurus? Then shook her own head to get rid of the vision, the strands of her wig flying in front of her face. She looked up, but the street did not look familiar, and neither was it sloping down towards the park. Where were the lazy cats, which usually lounged in the huge plant pots, right between the geraniums? Where was the rusty dismembered bike, missing the wheels and the seat, which was always chained up right next to the school?

Frowning, Tirtza read the name of the street. Ezra? How could she have possibly gotten there? How right were her school teachers in Atlanta, who always said her dreaminess was the cause of all her failures! How long did she space out for? This was absurd! Her watch showed quarter to nine, and she had no time to lose. Her fifth grade English class will be waiting for her shortly. Turning right into Nechemia, she sped up past the pharmacy, a dilapidated bus stop, a male hairdresser, and a fishmonger’s. Crossing one of the busiest streets in Jerusalem, which she privately termed “All Kings Way”, right by the enormous building site which used to be an army base during the mandate, she dodged a school van ferrying a gaggle of three-year-olds with shiny velvet kippas and gorgeous peot. Will her David go to one of those schools when he turns three? Not likely, is it… Her rebellious nature – naming herself Tirtza had perhaps something to do with that – would never allow her to follow all the rules properly…. She looked around to get her bearings, and realized she was now speeding past the high-riser towers known as Wolfson, and worse than that – she was by their back yards, and from there, she knew, there was no way down to the park and back up towards the school. She had to turn around…and why was this damn package so heavy?

Suddenly, a realization made cold sweat seep out on her forehead and back. How could she have gotten here so fast? Her watch was showing seven minutes to nine… and how did she end up on Ezra in the first place? Turning around, she ran in the direction of the exit. What nonsense, she must be just extra dreamy today. Just like the time when she missed her boating trip, because she got so carried away teaching her dog to roll over. Really not OK, she was an adult with adult responsibilities now. The package was pulling her arm down like a leaden weight, and Tirtza began to feel like it was exuding the vibes of death and making her confused. And indeed, looking up she saw that in three minutes flat she managed to transport herself all the way to King David Street by the Old city. The bizarre art in the galleries filled her heart with dread, and when the bell on the YMCA tower chimed nine, she felt herself disintegrating into hysterics. She had never before gotten lost in Jerusalem. She imagined her class going wild, and the principal coming to investigate, and tears began to sting her eyes. At last, she managed to get to the Great Synagogue, and sat down heavily on the stairs, placing the accursed head tenderly next to her backpack. The sun was baking her head through the wig, rivulets of sweat were running down her back. Something was really wrong. Was she going crazy? Mental illness did not run in the family, even though uncle Rupert had been as strange as his name was for a Jew. Usually kind and quiet, he used to always bring the same stale apple tart when he visited, looked through them all with vacant eyes, and left as quietly as he came. Then, one day, he got mad for no reason at all, and threw the nine-year-old Tirtza off her bike, because he thought she was trampling the wild flowers in her parents’ garden. She broke her left arm, and her summer vacation was ruined. “He is not well”, - her mother said quietly, pinching her lips together, as if that could mend her arm and restore her spirits. From that day on, Tirtza had been scared of older brooding men with vacant eyes.

A recent trip to Tzefat came to mind, where the tour guide told them about the spooks and ghosts inhabiting the streets of the second-holiest city in Israel. Something about his words was tugging at her memory. She had to find some shade, and call the school, at last.

When she sat down again by the arch of Talitha Kumi, staring down towards Ben Yehuda street, she barely had the strength to lift the water bottle to her lips. Perhaps she was getting sick? Is this a fever, the way people used to have it in the past, with delirium? The package was nearly pulling her arm off. She felt dizzy. Even if she tried walking to the school now, where was the promise she would not end up in, say, Malha mall?

A strong smell of a dirty body and stale urine, mixed up with beer and garlic, nearly made her stomach purge itself. A homeless man was sitting next to her. His bare feet were covered in caked mud that was at least a few months old, and he was wrapping himself in what looked like a blanket with more holes than cloth, the same colour as the parched asphalt all around them. Sucking on a bottle of Heineken, he watched her attentively her with protruding brown eyes. His one remaining tooth kept on scratching the glass bottle. Tirtza edged away from him carefully.

-        Can’t throw ma' life in the bin, ca' I now? – he drooled with a strong Irish accent. – Whenever the Almighty decides, that when I will go, Blessed be His name. He adjusted his shredded kippa. – Blessed! – he proclaimed, pointing up towards the pale dusty sky.

Tirtza edged a bit further away still. A raving madman. She thought her attire would protect her from all such, but apparently not. As long as he doesn’t realize he is making her gag. He could get offended, and… she did not want to imagine that.

-        But some things go righ' in tha' bin, ya, they do! – he finished emphatically, hurled the empty bottle away, and slid down into a lying position. When those toes almost touched her skirt, Tirtza ran for it.

The words she heard in Tzfat surfaced in her memory, at last. She hurled the revolting package into the bin by the Bell Centre, and said quite in earnest, “It’s forgiven to you!”, in Hebrew, three times, just as the tour guide told them, then walked away with light steps. Poor uncle Rupert, he never meant to hurt her, he was just a very unwell man.

-        We are having fish heads this year, - she whispered into the green button with a microphone in the middle. – I hope your parents will understand. Please... I just can't.

The main school clock's red numbers switched to indicate nine o’clock just as she walked into the fifth-grade classroom.

 

February 2023

 

Some days are pierced through

With ambulances’ shrieks.

And a cold grey blob of grief

Settles inside your lungs,

So deep you can’t spit it or swallow,

You hug your own hunching back,

For all the human warmth has melted

Into narrow capillaries of holding on.

Somewhere, not too far from here,

A child has left a wooden railroad,

And took a little train car with him.

To play on shabbat.  

They’ll never meet again,

The car and the track.

For the little train is lost

On the blood-soaked bus stop,

By the little hand that held it in play.

And the meaning is written somewhere

In letters of fire on a sheet of rain.

Somewhere, not too far from here,

Neighbours are tiptoeing around her,

The mother whose life has turned

To lead in her veins.

Somewhere, really close to here,

All our mothers are holding onto

Their children really tight.

Thinking of the fresh grave

With a little train on it.

A new grave in our thirsty land,

The cost of hatred.

The price of discord.