Graveside by Chris Reid
David, an Israeli in New York, is captivated by visiting IDF soldier Amit, but will their intercontinental romance withstand the new war?
Amit was lost. Gone. I must come and find her. Yair kept saying those words over and over. "David, David!" Shouting across the wire. No need for an international connection the way the man's voice crashed into my ear. "You awake? I need you up now."
Yair was an uncle on my mother's side of the family, although I wasn't sure if he had married into the family or was there by blood. Regardless, he was the only one left from that generation. The others were cousins, practically all living in the east of the country, on the other side of the wall. A religious Israel being carved into the land; I had little use for them. And they for me, I guess.
"Amit." A spectral cry across the line. "It's Amit, David, Amit! She's gone; she left."
We'd had a storm the night before, a changing-season storm, hard winds shifting to the northeast, bringing rain and a sudden cold snap. Ice-bark covered trees at the corner on West End where I grabbed a cab. The puddle at my feet had magicked into a tiny skating rink. I slipped and my knee slammed into the yellow door. I just managed to grab the handle to keep from falling. This was not a good start.
"Kennedy. Terminal four." I threw my backpack and overnight satchel on the floor behind the driver's side. "I have a route I like; turn left here on 102nd; take that to Amsterdam and turn left again."
"No worry, boss. Just tell me how you want to go, and I'll get you there."
Amit and I met more than ten years ago. I had been traveling to Tel Aviv for at least two years by then, so often that each trip had begun to blend into the next. Sunday out of JFK for an early Monday arrival, then meeting after meeting up to Thursday night and back to New York. Most meetings had been well laid out and planned during the weeks I was in New York - much of my time was organized around progress and management reviews at firms where we had made investments; a few were to hear pitches for new money. From time to time one of these would relate to a start-up representing a true opportunity. These went back with me to New York, to senior management in our firm, for their review. A few did become investments and were added to my review list for future trips.
Pattern deviation was rare and unwelcome. Except once. I was tired, worn down by a dozen meetings, eager for the end of my trip. The meeting was going nowhere. There was a presentation about a database of health outcomes, business professions, and lifestyles - more traps and pitfalls than the opportunity warranted. I was ending the meeting, apologizing for not being able to stay longer, explaining how I had to leave for my next meeting, and hoping that the team around the conference table understood the difficulty of getting such a complex project funded despite all the hard work and dedication that had already gone into their business.
Ofir, the head of this new venture, interrupted me: "David, it's okay. I know you're not going to invest. I think you're wrong. All the same, I'd like to ask a favor."
"Sure, if I can."
"I have a cousin who might want to work in New York. She's just finishing her tour as an officer in the army. She needs to make a decision now. Up or out. Very smart and very capable."
"Does she have a finance background? Is she interested in that kind of work?"
"No, I don't think so."
"We're pretty limited in terms of staff outside the investment world. Not sure what you think I could do."
"Talk to her. I'm really her only family. Maybe you could see a place for her in one of the companies you've invested in. Or tell her it won't work for her in New York; or that you might make an introduction or two, if she decides to move."
"I can do that. Maybe she could meet me for a coffee tomorrow, say six o'clock? I have some time then."
"Name a place; I'm sure Amit can meet with you - that's her name: Amit Shafran."
"Let's say in the Jaffa Court at the David Intercontinental; that's where I'm staying."
Amit was already there when I arrived; she had taken a table with two low chairs close to the tall glass windows looking out over the Med. It was the best table and best chair for that room; the view was to the clock tower at the Port of Jaffa; the crowded pool was to her back. She could see every movement in and out of the large atrium.
"Amit? I'm David."
She was close to my height when she stood and shook my hand. There was little fuss to her movement. I noted how at ease she was when we both sat down - totally relaxed, sitting back, legs crossed, arms stretched out on either side of the low chair. She wore a blue shirt, sort of a denim, the top two buttons undone, and khaki slacks. A large black stone on a silver chain was centered right at the top of her chest.
Even now I feel the shock of that moment; even now I am unsettled. Amit didn't wear her hair very long then, but the color, the blackness, the density was so complete I wondered what it would feel like to touch, and wanted very much to find out. Her focus was complete, no glances anywhere else. Blue eyes. I realized I had broken away from her gaze and was watching a young boy chasing another around the edge of the pool, muffled shouts and yells coming through the glass until they both cannonballed into the deep end.
"Could we stay in English?" I was off balance and wanted to wrest back some sense of control, control so irretrievably lost.
"Of course." Her voice was low, strong, no hesitation.
"Coffee? Maybe some cake? Tell me how I might help. Ofir tells me you're thinking of moving to New York."
I have looked back at our first time together again and again. What might have been different? And how could that change have bent the trajectory of her life, of my life, to different ends? I never find answers, other than what happened. We spent little time on New York and what her prospects might be.
Amit was not leaving Israel; she was not leaving the IDF. "Ofir was adamant I meet you. He's always been after me to leave the army. I think he hoped you'd convince me of the wonders of New York." She was laughing now. "But that's not for me."
What was there to talk about, then? Why was I even there? I remember moving to who we were; I found myself talking about my parents, how they made Aliyah, how I was born in Israel, how they moved back to New York when I was in grade school. The list turned into my resumé: moving back to New York so many years ago, college, what I studied, my job (but not much about that). We sat closer and closer. Coffees morphed into several glasses of wine. Amit had always wanted to be first; she had always been first: the first in her high school, the first in her IDF unit as a young recruit to qualify for officer's school, first among the other candidates in almost any physical challenge they were put to, and now the first to be selected to lead a search and rescue unit.
She was elated: "I have a chance to lead a company - men and women, Druze, Bedouin. Sabras and even the religious, if they serve. I can do this and I can do it well."
I kept her gaze, reached forward for my wine glass, but my fingers brushed hers instead. She had reached out as well. I interlaced our fingers and pulled her hand to my chest. I know she could feel my heart; I certainly could. I stood and pulled her easily up next to me.
"Maybe we can get some air. There's a restaurant, not much, but not too far. We can get something to eat."
Amit slipped her hand under my arm and pressed against my side. "I'd like that."
I don't remember what I thought after we made our farewells and I headed to Ben Gurion. But something had changed. Once in the air I drafted the first in a procession of texts and longer emails written and sent daily. Several of the most recent ones I was sure had just arrived when I stepped off my plane in Ben Gurion five or six weeks later. Some part of me hoped the barrage would let her know how certain I was and how far I would go to make being with her a reality.
Amit had read them; that I know. And once in a while I might get a note back with a reference or two to something I had written. She remained adamant, though. She would stay in Israel. That would be her course in life no matter how much she might have enjoyed a description of the early office-goers hustling down Third Avenue or the glimpse of the gray East River from my office window. She had particularly liked an image I had of late autumn clouds arrayed in ranks across the sky. "Soldier skies" I'd called them.
We walked and walked - and talked and talked - the second time we were together, a coffee in Neve Tzedek, an afternoon along the Mediterranean, and then dinner with Yair. He had booked a table at a restaurant on Dizengoff, where they let us stay until close to midnight, as long as the tab for our wine kept growing.
I had wondered what she would think of my diffident, difficult uncle, but Amit took to Yair right away, pulling the conversation away from commonplace talk of how her bream was cooked and what wine to try, and into what they shared - the army.
"Yair, what unit were you in?"
I knew my uncle. He had been in the IDF during the Yom Kippur War. He had fought in Sinai and Gaza. Prompted, he might tell a few stories about the army. Most of the time it involved some soldier who had recently joined the unit and who'd been sent out on various useless missions. Idle bullying, I thought, although I did note that these tales were never set in Sinai. When asked about what happened there, Yair would change the subject or get up and leave the conversation, no matter where or when it was.
Yair had his head down, focused on his plate. "The 143rd. A long time ago."
"So... during the war? You could be old enough."
"I was."
"That must have been horrible; your regiment suffered so many losses when the Egyptians came across the canal. And in the first counterattack. I learned about that in officer's training - there was so much about the battle tactics. Yet, you won in the end."
"At great cost." Yair turned to me. "You've not heard these stories - what happened, David; they'll be new to you, too." Turning to Amit, "You should know this. Whatever it takes, it cannot happen again. We were days - no, minutes to my mind - away from losing Israel."
Yair drew the Battle of the Chinese Farm out on the table. As tank commander, he and his men were at the center of the fighting. A saltshaker became his tank; two pepper mills and another shaker from the table next to us served as the rest of his platoon. He moved his vehicle and the others from point to point on the table, filling in the rest of the story by the tales swapped shortly after the battle and over the years. "The intelligence was shit. The roads were clear, they said. They weren't. The Egyptians were gone, we were told. They weren't; they were dug in." Yair returned to the one-on-one battles he had seen, the one-on-one battles his tank had fought. "I don't know about the strategy, it may have made sense to the generals, but I think we would have lost without what we did on the ground." Yair had come to the end. Silence.
"I thank you, Yair. Thank you." I felt Amit's hand; she pulled me toward her, blue eyes boring into mine. "I need to move, to walk. David, can we walk?"
The bill was settled; Yair claimed age and honor as the reason for paying and would allow no compromise. He gave us each a hug, a kiss for me on my forehead, and a whisper, "This is good, David, this is good."
The late night darkness and quiet drew us close as we stepped outside. I put my arm around Amit's shoulders and she hooked hers around my waist. We moved, matching strides, quickly. Maybe the wine had worn off; regardless, there were no missteps, no stumbles. There were few other people about, not that anyone could have mattered or hindered us.
I wasn't sure where we were headed until we reached Frishman, turned to the sea, and onto the long esplanade. There was little wind. We could hear gulls crying to each other across black skies and a murmur of waves against the shore and breakwater. I knew we would arrive at my hotel - soon if we kept our pace. I remember the strength in our bodies; we were fused steel. I kissed her in the elevator and again at my door. Amit grabbed me when we got into the room, searching my mouth with hers, hands behind my head, fingers entwined in my hair. I still remember my fear that night: I would be clumsy; I would be wrong, unsure; she wouldn't stay with me.
But Amit did.
Thereafter I was on EL AL Flight 14 to Ben Gurion every month. I stayed with Amit when I was in Tel Aviv. It was good. The business, that is. Israel tech companies still mattered, still were worthy investments. Amit and I were also good. At first. She would laugh at my jokes and the stories I would bring back from meetings during the day. We could walk the Hashniya esplanade that runs from Tel Aviv to Jaffa, have some wine while we watched the light across the Med melt into night. The sex was fierce and tender; I remember waking at dawn with my fingers still laced in her hair. We talked. We always talked. Yet I also remember a time of profound sadness.
"David, I do love you so." She fixed her blue eyes on mine, her arms wound around my neck. "I don't think we are meant to be forever."
"Hey... hey, no... what are you saying?"
"Israel will have another war. I will fight; that is what I am meant to do and what I mean to do. Will you fight in this war?"
I stumbled, not ready for the challenge; I was not sure what I felt at that moment. "I don't think that's right. Israel is too strong. There won't be another war. At least not like the war Yair was in."
"Not my question. You're wrong about another war. It's coming. I want to know if you would come back to fight."
"It may be your world, your sense of the future. But it's not mine."
She stared hard at me for a moment and then turned away.
I no longer was on the flight from New York every month. We still slept together; we talked; we walked about Tel Aviv. But a fence was being built between us. Amit would never ask me to stay in Israel. Instead, it was the opposite. She started to tell me more about her unit, about fellow officers who were leaving for big jobs in Israel's burgeoning tech sector, the way men looked at her, wanting to sleep with her or wanting her gone.
"The country is too crazy. Too crazy! We're in our little camps, our little worlds. No one thinks about the country."
EL AL seemed diminished, with fewer flights from JFK and none from Newark. There were only two check-in kiosks and few people in line. The plane was not going to be as crowded as I remembered from times past. We had to wait for the crew. It was going to be a two-hour delay.
A shimmer in front of my eyes: it would have been two years ago now. I'm on the Hashniya heading towards Jaffa, grabbed from behind, almost tackled. Amit. She wrapped her arms around me and stepped in front, blocking my path. Laughing, crying, she kissed me. Questioningly, then hard. "Davidel, you thought you could escape me? I wouldn't let you leave Israel without saying goodbye! I'm hurt you'd try."
She linked her arm through mine; we continued on, talking, of course. That was normal; that was what we did. Amit was the one person I wanted to talk to. But she was right; my intent was to leave.
The night before had not ended well. I had not been in Israel for nearly a year. We had spoken often on WhatsApp - no video. She would not allow it. Of course, I had written email after email, but there were few in return and little more than thanking me, frequently with a "digital" laugh about how I needed something better to do. I wasn't sure what set her off that night, but something had. She had made a reference to her bad eye, to the burns that covered her. I had said, "No, you are wonderful. You look fine." She threw the glass of wine in my face, screaming that she didn't want pity. She would not be with me, with anyone, if pity were at the heart. I was to leave. Go. And not come back.
"I'm sorry, David," she said that day on the Hashniya. "I lost it. I was wrong to yell. I think I may be okay, at least for now. My right eye is good. Day or night. Of course, no depth perception, but we're mad drivers anyway so it won't really matter. The arm is different. The doctor tells me I'll never get full strength back, no matter how hard I try."
Amit stopped mid-stride and pulled me around to face her. "But I'll have my hair - I'll always have my hair!"
Almost black. Flowing in waves pulled over to cover the left side of her face - the side burned by an incendiary mine exploding under the light armored vehicle during her last mission, a search through the rubble and burned-out craters and buildings. The scars would always be there. A black eye patch covered the eye that was no more than a milky orb. And her left ear gone, now little more than a hole in her skull. So close now. It was my turn to wrap my arms around her, to pull her close, fitting her body to mine, to bury my face in her hair.
"Yes. And you're still just the right height. Even what happened to you in Gaza couldn't take that away."
At one point of time everyone would have understood what we were saying. Gaza was what had upended everything, everyone. Had changed every conversation and each calculation.
"They have taken that away, though. No one remembers anymore."
"We do. We will."
"Oh, David," She pushed away; we were at arm's length. Her good eye bright, alive. A half smile. "You cannot stay here; you must go back to New York."
Walking again. We were opposite Andromeda's Rock and stopped to lean against the seawall, watching the breaking waves. The wind had come up and I could see rain off to the north and west.
Amit drew close again, tucking her head into my neck, then kissing my ear. A whisper, "I wish this could be always; I feel safe here. Safe with you."
The first drops. We'd be soaked soon if we didn't move. I grabbed her hand; we ran, somewhat giddy with laughter, back across the esplanade to shelter out of the sudden downpour. The restaurant had been there for years. In times past we would be in there two or more nights a week. It had been a haven, a place where we could be safe with each other, even when there were months between my trips to Israel. The war ended this tradition.
I had depended on Yair for news and details about the fighting; his network supplemented what I learned from online sources and Amit's cryptic texts. I called him when they suddenly stopped; up to then she had never gone more than a day or two without at least a text with a thumbs up or other emoji, sometimes a grimacing devil's face, which I never understood. His call came a day later. Amit and her team had been on a rescue mission just outside Khan Younis, the northernmost city in Gaza. A landmine had destroyed her vehicle; several on her team were wounded and Amit was being helicoptered to a burn trauma center in a Tel Aviv hospital that day.
I was on the first flight possible. While sitting in the hospital, I met several soldiers from her unit who were visiting her - quite a few initially, then fewer as days became weeks and then months. Her recovery was slow and eventually the vigil became only mine. But it meant I was there when the hospital relented and would allow her to leave - only in a wheelchair, no walking outside. "I must get to the water, to smell the sea. Take me there, David. I'll behave." I took her to the seawall at Jaffa, to the restaurant. Much of her face was covered in bandages, as was much of her left arm.
"Do you remember when I brought you here the first time? The applause? It was pretty crowded and they all stood and applauded you. And I think they meant it then. You know, I don't recall what we ate that night, but we never saw the bill."
This time I could see no one else in the small space. We found a table at the front; we could leave quickly if we wanted to.
"Yes." Amit looked past me, looked at the water. "They don't applaud now. They don't stand. I think they have forgotten. They don't want to know."
"Some do. I'm sure."
"This is why you must go, David. This is why. You believe. You say people can change, can grow, that they can remember what they have done, who they have wronged. They can't. Or won't."
She was toying with the water glass in front of her. A man from behind the counter came over, he ignored my effort to wave him away.
"I remember you." He pointed at me. "You wheeled her in; it was quite a while ago, now." And then back to Amit. "You were in a wheelchair. Most of you covered in bandages and gauze. So different now. How are you?"
I started to stand to put my body in front of him, to block what seemed to have become endless babble. "We don't need anything right now; I'll signal if we want to order."
Amit interrupted, "David, it's okay." And to the intruder, "Please, sit; join us. I think I remember you from that night, too."
"No, no. That's not right, I don't belong; I'm in your way." But he did sit. I think he knew, as I did; Amit wanted him there. At least then. There was nothing else for me to do. She wanted to do the talking now.
"This place, the restaurant. This is yours?"
"I wish. I'm just left running the place on weeknights. Like this." He swept his arm, I followed his gesture with my eyes and could see only ten, maybe a dozen, tables, all set for four. No other patrons; we were the only ones. "I'm at the front on the weekends. We're busier then."
"Who's Udi, then?" I could not sense where Amit wanted to go with this conversation, if that was what it was, but I knew that I needed to listen. To pay close attention.
"Udi? What do you mean?"
"Udi. Isn't that the name? Udi Hagadol - Big Udi?"
"Oh," the manager laughed. "That Udi. Yes, the first owner was named Udi. And God knows he was big. He had to squeeze in his huge gut every time he went behind the bar. But the place was wearing him down, even before the fighting started." Although he wanted to keep his focus on her good eye, to show her he was careful, I could see that his eyes flicked back to her eye patch and the scars on her face and along her left arm.
He glanced away. "So, Big Udi sold, got his money out, I heard, although I don't think he got very much. It was just a few months ago."
"Who is the new owner? Small Udi?" Amit laughed a bit. I could see an old pattern. Make the other person comfortable, draw them forward, nearer to her. I was still at a loss, however, as to what she wanted.
"Jakkov Kuntz, or Kluntz. Something like that. He rarely is here; never comes around during the week. I guess it's not worth his while."
"So, I see." Amit rose from the table and moved about the space, touching a napkin and place setting at one table, straightening the checked tablecloth at another. "Where is everybody, I wonder?" She looked directly at the manager. "It's not the food, is it? The view's still wonderful, even on today." Her eye now drew attention to the storm still raging in front of us, wave after wave crashing against the seawall, spume blown from the top of the wall to the two or three tables just under the canopy in front of us.
"It's okay." Not defensive; challenging, maybe. "But it's hard to cook for no one. And I mean no one. No one in the old city. So many are gone; they wouldn't stay after the war and what followed. Even the Arabs. They used to come in for a coffee and a pastry at times. Now, not even that."
"Where have they gone?"
"Not the States, that's for sure. Most to Europe, Portugal, and Spain, I hear."
"And the Arabs?"
"I can't say where the Arabs have gone. It's never easy for them."
"Why? Why are they leaving?" Amit continued to move about, almost as though she was searching for something on one of the tables, something left from the last time she was there.
"There's nothing left. No jobs. That's the easy answer. No jobs if you're not connected, and even then, it's hard."
"But you think it's more than just that, don't you." Amit had come back to the table.
"I do. It's hard to say. But it's almost -"
"- like not being able to breathe." She finished for him.
"Yes. I guess that's one way to say it. I keep hoping for change, but there's been little good so far."
Silence. I could see the rain had lessened. Sunlight in stark, brilliant shafts showed against the clouds off to the west.
"David, let's go. I need to. Let's." Amit was up and moving.
I put some bills on the table, thanked the manager, who protested that he had done nothing and please, please for us to stay for a coffee and a sweet. "On the house!" he said over and over. Finally, I could only turn and dash off after her. I was sure I knew where our next stop would be, where she had always intended for us to go. She had demanded I wheel her to the old Jewish cemetery on that other night; she was returning there now, only a few hundred meters from the restaurant. Then, we had slowly moved among the headstones, a few were fresh, almost new. But most old, the names and dates barely legible. She had held her good arm and hand up to stop me in front of one of the oldest. A simple block of limestone. The star at the top had mostly eroded away over the years and little of the names or dates was decipherable. It seemed to have been a family plot, but even that wasn't certain. This was where we returned to now.
"Do you remember what I said that day?"
"Of course. It was written on my forehead. In blood." I laughed a bit, nervous then, nervous now, at the intensity of what she had said. "'I won't be buried here, David. Never! Not now. Not ever. Remember!'"
Amit linked her arm in mine. "And more now, David, my one love. And more. I will not be buried anywhere in this land. It is no longer mine. Do you know what happened, David? I am not sure you ever heard."
We found a limestone bench close to graves and their simple headstones. It gave a little protection from the wind, and the late sun took some of the chill out of the air.
"Of course I heard. I talked to several soldiers from your unit and your commander when you were in hospital; they told me everything. That's why you were awarded the Distinguished Service Medal; I was there when they pinned it to your uniform, which a nurse had laid out on the chair next to your bed."
I remembered talking with the commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Busir, who reported what he had heard from several soldiers in Amit's unit. It was all the same. Still in the first month of the war, the army had just moved into Gaza. There had been a firefight in the first hours of the day. Her search-and-rescue team had been ordered to the scene; several soldiers were down; they had come under fire as they were picking through the rubble of a building destroyed in an air strike the night before. Amit's vehicle, in the lead, struck a mine and was engulfed by the explosion. After pulling the other two soldiers to safety, she ran in the direction of the incoming fire, killing at least one hostile and driving the others off. Amit returned to her unit to complete the extraction of soldiers they'd been sent to rescue, as well as the two who had been in her vehicle when it was hit. She only allowed medical attention for herself when this had been completed.
I heard this account while we were standing by Amit's bed in the hospital. How had she done all this? This figure, who was more mummy than human, tubed and wired like some horrible experiment, was not the warrior who had just been described to me. What had been the cost? Now, as I looked at her seated by me in the graveyard, the question remained.
"David, the story is true. At least what they told you was true. But not complete."
She leaned against me and pressed her head to mine. "I tell this only to you, my love, only to you. No one ever talks about the dust and the fear. And what your eye sees when only one part of your mind is working. We had been sent in; we were proceeding slowly down a track to where we knew the soldiers were, the ones we needed to extract. It was first light. I could see, barely."
She was quiet. I felt her shiver, the memory was palpable again.
"I didn't see her until she was right next to my window. Young, not more than fifteen, maybe younger. Her head was covered. But I saw her face; her face was clear. She smiled at me. I remember she waved at me with her right hand; I didn't see her left hand, but that must have been when she attached the mine to our vehicle. And ran."
I wondered if her silence was the end of the story she wanted to tell - had to tell, it seemed. I had not known Amit ever to be so silent. If there was something to be said, she'd say it regardless of its effect or cost.
"No training can ever prepare you for an explosion like that, a bomb going off under you. The flames and smoke were everywhere; I couldn't hear. They had told us in training that our 'jeeps' were armored to withstand IEDs; we were even shown video of jeeps and other armored cars driving over IEDs and continuing on, past the smoke and the sudden jolt."
Silence again.
"Even now I wonder why I was able to move. I yanked Itamar across the console, little more than a hole, and pulled both of us to the ground and away from the jeep, and then hauled Alon from the back. I started firing at movements I could see down the track. I was running, although I think I was doing little more than limping."
Amit turned back to me, her voice barely above a whisper, "I found her. She was hiding in a hollow made in the rubble of the buildings that were destroyed around us. I shot her. No, that's not true. That's not what I did. I pulled her from her hiding place. I screamed at her. I smashed her face with the butt of my rifle. I drove her to the ground. I pulled the hijab back. She lay whimpering in front of me. Turned out she wasn't even thirteen; flat-chested, not yet a woman. I put three rounds into her.
"I see her smile every night."
I stayed, but we didn't even have a year from that night. I don't think I realized when the days became dark and full of fear and hate. But by the end, sleep was the only place where anger didn't reign. By the end, we walked around each other like wild, wary field creatures, seeking an opening. She found it first.
"I can't stand your charity. I feel your pity. Your false concern for me. Look at me! Look! You know what I am talking about! You can't see me. You can't even look at me now."
I raised my eyes. She was haggard. The burned part of her face almost glowed red, as it did when she was angry, when her blood was up. Her beauty left her at these moments. Even her raven black hair appeared strangely gray. We were close, our circling had ceased. I reached my hand out to her, which she slapped away. Reminding me of the warrior who was always close to the surface.
"I hate this. I hate you. I hate them."
"Amit, oh, Amit, Amit." I knew what I had to do. "I'm going. I can always come back if you need me to. Want me. I will let Yair know. Maybe you'll let him help you."
And help me, I thought then. And now at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic. Once I had recovered from the shock of Yair's voice and what he was telling me, which I made him repeat several times before I was able or even willing to accept what he had said, we began to plan.
"I have talked to her neighbors, David. And the handyman who works around her building. It's been more than a week since she'd been seen. And do you remember that coffee bar right by the theatre? Near Batsheva Dance? Amit would always go there for a coffee. I met her there several times. I went there."
"Did they remember her?"
Yair was quick: "Of course. Everyone remembered her. And not only because of her face. Amit would talk to whoever was on staff. The workers. Mostly the ones who had just arrived - had just come to Israel. She was always after them: Why had they come? Would they go back? Why were they staying?"
Yair had paused then. For a moment I wondered if our connection had been cut.
"I don't know if I can tell you this."
"What is it, Yair? Come on! We're well past whatever it is."
"It's not what you think."
"Damn it! You have no idea what I think. Talk to me, Yair! Please." I had not seen Amit in at least a year. I would not have been surprised had she been with another man; I knew it would hurt. But leaving was my fault as well.
"She was close to one of the workers, a cook, I think. I was looking for him when I went there; I thought he would know."
"And did he?"
"He wasn't there. From what they said he had left maybe a month earlier. In fact, it was around then that they had last seen Amit, who had come in hoping to find him. When they said he was gone, she blew up, demanding his address, wanting to know whether he had a different cell, why didn't they know where he lived. The woman, who runs the place most days, said she became quite frightened."
I allowed myself a moment's pity for the barista; I knew how dangerous Amit appeared - and, in fact, was - when she was angry. There seemed no end to what she might do at those times.
"Did Amit get what she wanted?"
"I don't think so. They really knew very little about the cook. They weren't even sure of his name. Shlomo, the barista said. But she couldn't be certain. She told Amit that the cook had said something about going south; she couldn't say. I guess Amit calmed down a bit and then left."
"When was the last time you saw her, Yair. And a series of texts won't do."
"A month, I think it was."
"Yair?"
"Well, maybe more." Yair's sense of days was little better than his understanding of the true time difference between Tel Aviv and New York. "We were to have lunch. It was Saturday. I think I said something about having a festive Shabbat meal. She snapped my head off. 'Listen to me, Yair. Listen well.' She was furious. No wonder she scared you. What wildness! 'There is no Shabbat for me. There was peace once. Now, no more.'"
"But you saw her, really saw her. This wasn't some phone conversation half-remembered?"
"No, it was real. We didn't have lunch. That idea was gone, but we did have a coffee at a small cafe near the theatre, not too far from her apartment. She wouldn't speak to me - not in any real sense; I could never get her to talk the way she would when you were around. I couldn't even get her to talk about you. 'That's in my past, Yair,' she said. 'Some good, there. Mostly good, I think.' That was the one smile I saw. We must find her."
It took almost no time to taxi to the gate; there few other planes on the tarmac. And little time to get to passport control. I scanned my passport, the Israeli one. I thought it might get me through a bit more easily. There was only a momentary wait while the photo taken at the stand confirmed the biometric match. I stepped toward the arrivals hall.
"David Goldstone? You are David Goldstone?" A question, but not a question. "Would you step over here please?"
A young man, maybe late twenties, uniformed with some border control insignia, waved me over to where he was standing behind a small podium-sized desk. A slightly older woman, I thought her to be about my age, not uniformed, stood next to him.
"Your passport." He held out his hand. He made a show of examining it while the woman studied the computer screen on the desk. "I see you have been a regular traveler between America and Eretz Israel but haven't been here in what, two years?" The woman touched his elbow to draw his attention to the screen in front of her. "No, it appears it's closer to three." He held out his hand again: "Your United States passport, please." Again, a show of examining each page, and again the woman was conducting the important search on the computer screen in front of her.
"Why don't you use your US passport, Mr. Goldstone?"
"It seemed to make sense when I was back and forth, so I saw no reason to change this time."
"Why has it been so long? You used to travel to Israel quite often, it appears."
I knew they had more information at hand; hell, they probably knew more about me than I did. "The war."
"You didn't come back to fight?"
"My parents moved back to New York when I was ten. That has been my home since." He seemed to be waiting for more. "There was no need for me."
"Shouldn't you have let the IDF be the judge of that?"
"Perhaps, but that was not what happened."
"What happened?"
"I broke up with a woman I was with. I had to leave. And then my business kept me in New York, most of the time."
"Then what is the purpose of your trip today? Trying to reignite the flame?"
I thought there was a slight smirk. I adhered as close to the truth as possible. "No, my uncle asked me to come to help him on a business matter; he wants to sell some property."
"And that's what you do, Mr. Goldstone?" The woman's voice had an edge and was lower than I had expected. She was asserting herself and taking over the interrogation, for that is certainly what this had become. "You're a real estate maven? A broker?"
"No. Not at all. But I thought I could help my uncle. I still have contacts from when I was here more often. We keep in touch, and I thought they might be useful." There was no response from either. "Besides, it's my uncle. When he calls, you must come. No matter what."
"Calls? When did he call?" The woman was in charge.
"Two days ago; I could only get on the Thursday flight."
"You expect to stay how long?" The young man in the uniform seemed to want to get back into the lead, or perhaps the woman had made some signal that she was no longer interested in me as she pointedly returned to studying her screen and then sharply striking the keys.
"I can't say for certain; we could get lucky, and it will only be a few days, but I cannot stay for more than two weeks. My business in New York will need me back by then,"
"Where is your address in Israel?"
"With my uncle." I gave his address, an old apartment building off Jabotinsky.
"I hope you are right, Mr. Goldstone." He waved me on. "You should not stay longer than you've planned."
I took little notice of Ben Gurion after that. There were fewer people than I had remembered, and no human traffic jams in arrivals and at the taxi and bus stand. Yair, however, was exactly where he'd said he'd be. Tall, lean, belying his eighty some years, he was leaning against the passenger door of his four-wheel-drive truck, ignoring the passing cars and horns and shouts.
"David! You're here!" He grabbed my bag and threw it into the bed of the truck. He kissed me roughly on each cheek and held the passenger door for me to get in. We were on our way.
"Where is everybody, Yair? The flight wasn't that crowded, even in 'steerage,' where I must fly now. I didn't see a lot of people in the airport, either."
"We're not so welcoming, anymore. Particularly for those dressed like you. Or me. Look what I have been reduced to," pointing to his head. I hadn't noticed the knitted kippah held close to his steel-gray hair with a pin. He made a face.
"Is that why they pulled me aside after passport control? I was going to tell you. That was a first."
"That could've been it. That or something in their databases. Who knows what they are checking for? Even my friends from the army don't know. At least those I can still talk to."
I racked the seat back a bit; I had ridden with Yair many times in the past, trusting his sense of the road and the traffic around him, even at the impossibly high speeds he always drove. We were well past dawn; there should have been many more cars on the road, some competing with Yair and most staying clear. It was quiet. The flight and all the energy I had poured into the past days weighed on my eyelids.
Some while later I realized I was listening to Yair's voice. He was telling me about Amit, about the last few times he had seen her, had spoken to her. "She scared me, David. You know how she can be. So fierce. I would never have wanted to come up against her when she served. My God, she is a power! There were times I went to her apartment, and it would be fine. Just like old times when she was with you. But more and more recently, things were different. I often thought she hadn't bathed in days, her apartment was a mess, and her hair! I told you what she said and what she was like the last time I saw her. What I didn't say was that she had aged years and years. Haggard. Her hair little more than a witch's wig. It was awful."
"Have you checked hospitals?"
"Of course. As best as can be done. There is little interest in answering questions from just some friend - I'm not family, if you can understand. No one wants to help."
"We need to go to her apartment! Now! I must see what she left; that may tell me where she went, where she's going."
"How do you plan to get in? I don't think the landlord will be too welcoming."
I reached in my pocket to make sure it was still there. "I have my key."
Her apartment was in a small building on the edge of Neve Tzedek, an older building. No more than three stories and a handful of apartments. It was not what I remembered when I turned the key and opened the door, not even from the last few weeks we were together; words and wine and glasses had been thrown, creating stains that could not be cleaned or taken back. But none of that prepared me for the dirt, dust, unmade bed, and unwashed dishes - the chaos throughout the apartment. This was not Amit - not the way she lived. A lizard scurried across the floor when I stepped into her bedroom. I hoped the small box would still be there. Amit kept papers there, her passport, her medal, and the citation, rolled up and stuffed at the bottom. At one point I knew she was keeping a journal; it was part of a therapy. She never showed it to me, but I remembered her putting the journal in the box one night, back in better days.
It was there, tucked behind a pile of clothes at the back of the closet. The lock was easily broken, the journal at the top, as though it had been taken out recently. I paged to the last entry; there was no date.
Yair insisted we leave her apartment and go to his; it was not far. "You need to rest, David. Some sleep after the flight will help, and then we can decide what to do. I know you want to follow her, but we need time to think about what we're doing, and I need time to get the sleeping bags and tent out and into the truck. We don't want to depend on others."
I did sleep.
It was dusk by the time we were back on the road. Yair had said it would not be smart to get on the highways much before. "Shodeka Zikim is hard religious; they'll not want to see a truck driving up to their gates, but it's the start of Purim tonight. I think it'll be okay to arrive after the party has been going for a bit."
I had little to say to that. My concerns were more internal and pressing to me than the time we would arrive and what might track us on the road. What were the words I could use to separate Amit from the nightmares consuming her?
With little to no traffic Yair had us past Ashkelon shortly before seven that evening and to the small two-track road leading to the moshav's entrance thirty minutes later. The lights surprised me. Bright strobes mounted high on power poles flashed when we were about one thousand meters from the entrance, and the high fence stretched off into the darkness on either side. I could see two armed guards at the barrier that crossed the entrance, a small gatehouse on the left, and a larger squat, heavily reinforced building off to the right-rear of the entrance, just past where the road continued and made a hard right turn. I heard a sharp breath as Yair slowed the truck to a stop at the barrier.
"Little welcome here, I think. Who do they think we are?"
"And who do they think they are?" I added. Each guard was carrying an ugly short-barreled weapon with a full clip already in place and another stuck in the sashes around their waists. The red bloused pants, white shirts, bandoliers, and Turkish fez caps completed their most improbable garb.
Yair put both hands at the top of the steering wheel, and then motioned to me with his eyes, glancing from me to the dashboard. I placed my hands there. Yair's voice was low and quiet. "I wonder where they got those rifles. They are late model Tavors - Bullpups. Scary weapons. I didn't think anyone other than the IDF had them."
The man on my side of the truck kept a pace or two back, his right hand around the ammo clip of his rifle. The guard opposite stepped forward and motioned to roll the window down. Yair took his left hand off the steering wheel and opened the window about two-thirds of the way. The guard leaned in, looking closely at Yair.
"Yes? You are here for Purim? As someone's guest?'
There was a powerful smell of alcohol as he spoke. I swiveled in my seat to face him and lifted my hand from the dash, held it out to him, palm up.
"No, not Purim. And not as guests. We are hoping to find someone, a woman. She left a message that she was coming here, and we have gotten worried."
"Does she have a name, this woman?"
"Amit. Amit Shafran, although she rarely tells anyone her last name. Has she been here?"
"Does she know people who live here? She's visiting them?"
"I don't think so; I'm not certain she came. She just left a message. Only to me."
"What does she look like, this Amit person?"
"She's about 1.8 meters tall, slim. Long black hair and wears an eye patch over her left eye."
Yair added, "She may appear more a beggar now than anything else. We fear she's" - he searched for a word - "fallen..."
The guard on the left pulled back from the window and nodded to his companion, who whispered into a small transmitter on his bandolier. A few moments passed; he nodded again and stepped forward.
"Go straight past the gate and follow the road around to the right; there will be a road leading off to the left just past the building you see at the junction." He pointed to the low building in front of us. "Make the left turn and stop. The moshav's doctor will meet you." He motioned to the other guard to pull the barrier back and waved us through.
Four people were gathered at the back of the building where Yair brought the truck to a stop. As we got out, a woman walked to the passenger side and extended her arm, palm facing up. We were to stop - come no closer. She dropped her arm to her side. "I'm Dr. Yagille, Ayelet Yagille. And you are?"
"David Goldstone."
Yair stepped forward. "I'm his uncle. Call me Yair."
Dr. Yagille didn't respond and kept her eyes directly on me. "Who is this woman you're looking for? Does she have a name?"
"Amit. Amit Shafran. She was in the IDF. She was wounded, fighting in Gaza in the first months of the war, losing an eye. And bad burns on her left arm."
"She is here. I'm sorry. But she is dead."
"How? How can that be?" My nightmares were made real. Yair had crumpled next to us; he sounded like a wounded animal, grunting and crying at once.
The doctor crossed her arms, placed her hands against her shoulders and took a short step closer to me. "Aryeh can tell you more. Come. Let's go over to him and the others. I think you need to hear what happened."
I tugged and pulled Yair to his feet, put my arm about his shoulders to steady his steps, and followed her over to the small group. Dr. Yagille motioned to the man standing in the center of the remaining three. Burly, shaved head, he was costumed, but differently than the guards. He carried himself easily, as though accustomed to being in control. The kaffiyeh now around his shoulders had probably been wrapped around his head and neck earlier that night. One of the women standing with him was dressed as though she was trying out for a part in an old pirate movie. The other was wearing a full hijab.
I don't remember the words in Aryeh's story that night, only an outline of what had happened. At some point in the evening, after a Purim pageant, the children of the moshav were running around the bonfire and their parents and families were having the many required glasses of wine. Aryeh saw Amit standing near his daughter and then tugging at her as she tried to pull away. He thought he could hear his daughter shouting at the women, could see her turning and twisting to escape from this strange person's grasp. And a quick round of questions and responses confirmed that no one in Zikim knew her. That's when the screaming started. Aryeh said that the strange woman kept pawing at his daughter, grabbing at her, clutching her, grabbing the hijab that she had chosen for her costume. Yelling, "You're alive! Alive! Not possible! I killed you! I smashed your face; I shot you!" His daughter pulled away and ran. Amit tried to run after her but tripped and fell, striking her head against a stone at the edge of the bonfire.
Dr. Yagille was waiting for this moment. "They called me, of course. But - your friend - was dead by the time I arrived." The doctor waved the others away. "Now, we have a problem. And I hope you can help. We could bury your friend here, in Zikim. But we would have to report this, and there would be an inquiry and the police, and that will take time. Time we don't have."
Yair stepped away from me to face the doctor. "What can you mean? You don't have time! A woman has died on your moshav, and you fear a report?"
But it was Aryeh who answered, "Yes, yes. We are saddened by her loss, by your loss. But the first group, the first settlers for greater Israel, are to set out for Gaza tomorrow."
"Greater Israel!" Yair spat on the ground. "You have no shame. You will destroy the country, that we built - you may already have."
Aryeh stepped in, close to Yair. Almost a head shorter, but stout, strong, and threatening. "That you built? You and your kind would have a country of Tel-Avivists. Secular, easy lives. Not real Jews. Not willing to claim the land that is ours, has always been ours, given to us by God."
Yair remained steady, still. "The sacrifice I made; the brothers I lost in the Sinai, were real enough. We saved the state you are setting out to destroy."
"But all too willing to let it go, to give up our land in a fool's pursuit of a peace with those who never want peace; as long as there're Jews to kill. We will sacrifice for the land. We will do so now."
"Amit is the one who really did sacrifice herself for Israel, not the likes of a pitiful band of settlers." Yair turned back to me: "We should call the police for this!"
"No, Yair. Not now." I knew what we had to do. "You and I will take Amit. She would want that. We will bury her here, nearby." I could see both Aryeh and Dr. Yagille raise their hands in protest. "There is open land. If we go now, we can finish before any light. Before we are noticed."
I started walking to the door of the low, squat building. I knew that was where Amit was. I could not keep the promise, but she would not be in a graveyard. There would be wildflowers in the field; chamomile would soon bloom.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
Yair was an uncle on my mother's side of the family, although I wasn't sure if he had married into the family or was there by blood. Regardless, he was the only one left from that generation. The others were cousins, practically all living in the east of the country, on the other side of the wall. A religious Israel being carved into the land; I had little use for them. And they for me, I guess.
"Amit." A spectral cry across the line. "It's Amit, David, Amit! She's gone; she left."
We'd had a storm the night before, a changing-season storm, hard winds shifting to the northeast, bringing rain and a sudden cold snap. Ice-bark covered trees at the corner on West End where I grabbed a cab. The puddle at my feet had magicked into a tiny skating rink. I slipped and my knee slammed into the yellow door. I just managed to grab the handle to keep from falling. This was not a good start.
"Kennedy. Terminal four." I threw my backpack and overnight satchel on the floor behind the driver's side. "I have a route I like; turn left here on 102nd; take that to Amsterdam and turn left again."
"No worry, boss. Just tell me how you want to go, and I'll get you there."
Amit and I met more than ten years ago. I had been traveling to Tel Aviv for at least two years by then, so often that each trip had begun to blend into the next. Sunday out of JFK for an early Monday arrival, then meeting after meeting up to Thursday night and back to New York. Most meetings had been well laid out and planned during the weeks I was in New York - much of my time was organized around progress and management reviews at firms where we had made investments; a few were to hear pitches for new money. From time to time one of these would relate to a start-up representing a true opportunity. These went back with me to New York, to senior management in our firm, for their review. A few did become investments and were added to my review list for future trips.
Pattern deviation was rare and unwelcome. Except once. I was tired, worn down by a dozen meetings, eager for the end of my trip. The meeting was going nowhere. There was a presentation about a database of health outcomes, business professions, and lifestyles - more traps and pitfalls than the opportunity warranted. I was ending the meeting, apologizing for not being able to stay longer, explaining how I had to leave for my next meeting, and hoping that the team around the conference table understood the difficulty of getting such a complex project funded despite all the hard work and dedication that had already gone into their business.
Ofir, the head of this new venture, interrupted me: "David, it's okay. I know you're not going to invest. I think you're wrong. All the same, I'd like to ask a favor."
"Sure, if I can."
"I have a cousin who might want to work in New York. She's just finishing her tour as an officer in the army. She needs to make a decision now. Up or out. Very smart and very capable."
"Does she have a finance background? Is she interested in that kind of work?"
"No, I don't think so."
"We're pretty limited in terms of staff outside the investment world. Not sure what you think I could do."
"Talk to her. I'm really her only family. Maybe you could see a place for her in one of the companies you've invested in. Or tell her it won't work for her in New York; or that you might make an introduction or two, if she decides to move."
"I can do that. Maybe she could meet me for a coffee tomorrow, say six o'clock? I have some time then."
"Name a place; I'm sure Amit can meet with you - that's her name: Amit Shafran."
"Let's say in the Jaffa Court at the David Intercontinental; that's where I'm staying."
Amit was already there when I arrived; she had taken a table with two low chairs close to the tall glass windows looking out over the Med. It was the best table and best chair for that room; the view was to the clock tower at the Port of Jaffa; the crowded pool was to her back. She could see every movement in and out of the large atrium.
"Amit? I'm David."
She was close to my height when she stood and shook my hand. There was little fuss to her movement. I noted how at ease she was when we both sat down - totally relaxed, sitting back, legs crossed, arms stretched out on either side of the low chair. She wore a blue shirt, sort of a denim, the top two buttons undone, and khaki slacks. A large black stone on a silver chain was centered right at the top of her chest.
Even now I feel the shock of that moment; even now I am unsettled. Amit didn't wear her hair very long then, but the color, the blackness, the density was so complete I wondered what it would feel like to touch, and wanted very much to find out. Her focus was complete, no glances anywhere else. Blue eyes. I realized I had broken away from her gaze and was watching a young boy chasing another around the edge of the pool, muffled shouts and yells coming through the glass until they both cannonballed into the deep end.
"Could we stay in English?" I was off balance and wanted to wrest back some sense of control, control so irretrievably lost.
"Of course." Her voice was low, strong, no hesitation.
"Coffee? Maybe some cake? Tell me how I might help. Ofir tells me you're thinking of moving to New York."
I have looked back at our first time together again and again. What might have been different? And how could that change have bent the trajectory of her life, of my life, to different ends? I never find answers, other than what happened. We spent little time on New York and what her prospects might be.
Amit was not leaving Israel; she was not leaving the IDF. "Ofir was adamant I meet you. He's always been after me to leave the army. I think he hoped you'd convince me of the wonders of New York." She was laughing now. "But that's not for me."
What was there to talk about, then? Why was I even there? I remember moving to who we were; I found myself talking about my parents, how they made Aliyah, how I was born in Israel, how they moved back to New York when I was in grade school. The list turned into my resumé: moving back to New York so many years ago, college, what I studied, my job (but not much about that). We sat closer and closer. Coffees morphed into several glasses of wine. Amit had always wanted to be first; she had always been first: the first in her high school, the first in her IDF unit as a young recruit to qualify for officer's school, first among the other candidates in almost any physical challenge they were put to, and now the first to be selected to lead a search and rescue unit.
She was elated: "I have a chance to lead a company - men and women, Druze, Bedouin. Sabras and even the religious, if they serve. I can do this and I can do it well."
I kept her gaze, reached forward for my wine glass, but my fingers brushed hers instead. She had reached out as well. I interlaced our fingers and pulled her hand to my chest. I know she could feel my heart; I certainly could. I stood and pulled her easily up next to me.
"Maybe we can get some air. There's a restaurant, not much, but not too far. We can get something to eat."
Amit slipped her hand under my arm and pressed against my side. "I'd like that."
I don't remember what I thought after we made our farewells and I headed to Ben Gurion. But something had changed. Once in the air I drafted the first in a procession of texts and longer emails written and sent daily. Several of the most recent ones I was sure had just arrived when I stepped off my plane in Ben Gurion five or six weeks later. Some part of me hoped the barrage would let her know how certain I was and how far I would go to make being with her a reality.
Amit had read them; that I know. And once in a while I might get a note back with a reference or two to something I had written. She remained adamant, though. She would stay in Israel. That would be her course in life no matter how much she might have enjoyed a description of the early office-goers hustling down Third Avenue or the glimpse of the gray East River from my office window. She had particularly liked an image I had of late autumn clouds arrayed in ranks across the sky. "Soldier skies" I'd called them.
We walked and walked - and talked and talked - the second time we were together, a coffee in Neve Tzedek, an afternoon along the Mediterranean, and then dinner with Yair. He had booked a table at a restaurant on Dizengoff, where they let us stay until close to midnight, as long as the tab for our wine kept growing.
I had wondered what she would think of my diffident, difficult uncle, but Amit took to Yair right away, pulling the conversation away from commonplace talk of how her bream was cooked and what wine to try, and into what they shared - the army.
"Yair, what unit were you in?"
I knew my uncle. He had been in the IDF during the Yom Kippur War. He had fought in Sinai and Gaza. Prompted, he might tell a few stories about the army. Most of the time it involved some soldier who had recently joined the unit and who'd been sent out on various useless missions. Idle bullying, I thought, although I did note that these tales were never set in Sinai. When asked about what happened there, Yair would change the subject or get up and leave the conversation, no matter where or when it was.
Yair had his head down, focused on his plate. "The 143rd. A long time ago."
"So... during the war? You could be old enough."
"I was."
"That must have been horrible; your regiment suffered so many losses when the Egyptians came across the canal. And in the first counterattack. I learned about that in officer's training - there was so much about the battle tactics. Yet, you won in the end."
"At great cost." Yair turned to me. "You've not heard these stories - what happened, David; they'll be new to you, too." Turning to Amit, "You should know this. Whatever it takes, it cannot happen again. We were days - no, minutes to my mind - away from losing Israel."
Yair drew the Battle of the Chinese Farm out on the table. As tank commander, he and his men were at the center of the fighting. A saltshaker became his tank; two pepper mills and another shaker from the table next to us served as the rest of his platoon. He moved his vehicle and the others from point to point on the table, filling in the rest of the story by the tales swapped shortly after the battle and over the years. "The intelligence was shit. The roads were clear, they said. They weren't. The Egyptians were gone, we were told. They weren't; they were dug in." Yair returned to the one-on-one battles he had seen, the one-on-one battles his tank had fought. "I don't know about the strategy, it may have made sense to the generals, but I think we would have lost without what we did on the ground." Yair had come to the end. Silence.
"I thank you, Yair. Thank you." I felt Amit's hand; she pulled me toward her, blue eyes boring into mine. "I need to move, to walk. David, can we walk?"
The bill was settled; Yair claimed age and honor as the reason for paying and would allow no compromise. He gave us each a hug, a kiss for me on my forehead, and a whisper, "This is good, David, this is good."
The late night darkness and quiet drew us close as we stepped outside. I put my arm around Amit's shoulders and she hooked hers around my waist. We moved, matching strides, quickly. Maybe the wine had worn off; regardless, there were no missteps, no stumbles. There were few other people about, not that anyone could have mattered or hindered us.
I wasn't sure where we were headed until we reached Frishman, turned to the sea, and onto the long esplanade. There was little wind. We could hear gulls crying to each other across black skies and a murmur of waves against the shore and breakwater. I knew we would arrive at my hotel - soon if we kept our pace. I remember the strength in our bodies; we were fused steel. I kissed her in the elevator and again at my door. Amit grabbed me when we got into the room, searching my mouth with hers, hands behind my head, fingers entwined in my hair. I still remember my fear that night: I would be clumsy; I would be wrong, unsure; she wouldn't stay with me.
But Amit did.
Thereafter I was on EL AL Flight 14 to Ben Gurion every month. I stayed with Amit when I was in Tel Aviv. It was good. The business, that is. Israel tech companies still mattered, still were worthy investments. Amit and I were also good. At first. She would laugh at my jokes and the stories I would bring back from meetings during the day. We could walk the Hashniya esplanade that runs from Tel Aviv to Jaffa, have some wine while we watched the light across the Med melt into night. The sex was fierce and tender; I remember waking at dawn with my fingers still laced in her hair. We talked. We always talked. Yet I also remember a time of profound sadness.
"David, I do love you so." She fixed her blue eyes on mine, her arms wound around my neck. "I don't think we are meant to be forever."
"Hey... hey, no... what are you saying?"
"Israel will have another war. I will fight; that is what I am meant to do and what I mean to do. Will you fight in this war?"
I stumbled, not ready for the challenge; I was not sure what I felt at that moment. "I don't think that's right. Israel is too strong. There won't be another war. At least not like the war Yair was in."
"Not my question. You're wrong about another war. It's coming. I want to know if you would come back to fight."
"It may be your world, your sense of the future. But it's not mine."
She stared hard at me for a moment and then turned away.
I no longer was on the flight from New York every month. We still slept together; we talked; we walked about Tel Aviv. But a fence was being built between us. Amit would never ask me to stay in Israel. Instead, it was the opposite. She started to tell me more about her unit, about fellow officers who were leaving for big jobs in Israel's burgeoning tech sector, the way men looked at her, wanting to sleep with her or wanting her gone.
"The country is too crazy. Too crazy! We're in our little camps, our little worlds. No one thinks about the country."
EL AL seemed diminished, with fewer flights from JFK and none from Newark. There were only two check-in kiosks and few people in line. The plane was not going to be as crowded as I remembered from times past. We had to wait for the crew. It was going to be a two-hour delay.
A shimmer in front of my eyes: it would have been two years ago now. I'm on the Hashniya heading towards Jaffa, grabbed from behind, almost tackled. Amit. She wrapped her arms around me and stepped in front, blocking my path. Laughing, crying, she kissed me. Questioningly, then hard. "Davidel, you thought you could escape me? I wouldn't let you leave Israel without saying goodbye! I'm hurt you'd try."
She linked her arm through mine; we continued on, talking, of course. That was normal; that was what we did. Amit was the one person I wanted to talk to. But she was right; my intent was to leave.
The night before had not ended well. I had not been in Israel for nearly a year. We had spoken often on WhatsApp - no video. She would not allow it. Of course, I had written email after email, but there were few in return and little more than thanking me, frequently with a "digital" laugh about how I needed something better to do. I wasn't sure what set her off that night, but something had. She had made a reference to her bad eye, to the burns that covered her. I had said, "No, you are wonderful. You look fine." She threw the glass of wine in my face, screaming that she didn't want pity. She would not be with me, with anyone, if pity were at the heart. I was to leave. Go. And not come back.
"I'm sorry, David," she said that day on the Hashniya. "I lost it. I was wrong to yell. I think I may be okay, at least for now. My right eye is good. Day or night. Of course, no depth perception, but we're mad drivers anyway so it won't really matter. The arm is different. The doctor tells me I'll never get full strength back, no matter how hard I try."
Amit stopped mid-stride and pulled me around to face her. "But I'll have my hair - I'll always have my hair!"
Almost black. Flowing in waves pulled over to cover the left side of her face - the side burned by an incendiary mine exploding under the light armored vehicle during her last mission, a search through the rubble and burned-out craters and buildings. The scars would always be there. A black eye patch covered the eye that was no more than a milky orb. And her left ear gone, now little more than a hole in her skull. So close now. It was my turn to wrap my arms around her, to pull her close, fitting her body to mine, to bury my face in her hair.
"Yes. And you're still just the right height. Even what happened to you in Gaza couldn't take that away."
At one point of time everyone would have understood what we were saying. Gaza was what had upended everything, everyone. Had changed every conversation and each calculation.
"They have taken that away, though. No one remembers anymore."
"We do. We will."
"Oh, David," She pushed away; we were at arm's length. Her good eye bright, alive. A half smile. "You cannot stay here; you must go back to New York."
Walking again. We were opposite Andromeda's Rock and stopped to lean against the seawall, watching the breaking waves. The wind had come up and I could see rain off to the north and west.
Amit drew close again, tucking her head into my neck, then kissing my ear. A whisper, "I wish this could be always; I feel safe here. Safe with you."
The first drops. We'd be soaked soon if we didn't move. I grabbed her hand; we ran, somewhat giddy with laughter, back across the esplanade to shelter out of the sudden downpour. The restaurant had been there for years. In times past we would be in there two or more nights a week. It had been a haven, a place where we could be safe with each other, even when there were months between my trips to Israel. The war ended this tradition.
I had depended on Yair for news and details about the fighting; his network supplemented what I learned from online sources and Amit's cryptic texts. I called him when they suddenly stopped; up to then she had never gone more than a day or two without at least a text with a thumbs up or other emoji, sometimes a grimacing devil's face, which I never understood. His call came a day later. Amit and her team had been on a rescue mission just outside Khan Younis, the northernmost city in Gaza. A landmine had destroyed her vehicle; several on her team were wounded and Amit was being helicoptered to a burn trauma center in a Tel Aviv hospital that day.
I was on the first flight possible. While sitting in the hospital, I met several soldiers from her unit who were visiting her - quite a few initially, then fewer as days became weeks and then months. Her recovery was slow and eventually the vigil became only mine. But it meant I was there when the hospital relented and would allow her to leave - only in a wheelchair, no walking outside. "I must get to the water, to smell the sea. Take me there, David. I'll behave." I took her to the seawall at Jaffa, to the restaurant. Much of her face was covered in bandages, as was much of her left arm.
"Do you remember when I brought you here the first time? The applause? It was pretty crowded and they all stood and applauded you. And I think they meant it then. You know, I don't recall what we ate that night, but we never saw the bill."
This time I could see no one else in the small space. We found a table at the front; we could leave quickly if we wanted to.
"Yes." Amit looked past me, looked at the water. "They don't applaud now. They don't stand. I think they have forgotten. They don't want to know."
"Some do. I'm sure."
"This is why you must go, David. This is why. You believe. You say people can change, can grow, that they can remember what they have done, who they have wronged. They can't. Or won't."
She was toying with the water glass in front of her. A man from behind the counter came over, he ignored my effort to wave him away.
"I remember you." He pointed at me. "You wheeled her in; it was quite a while ago, now." And then back to Amit. "You were in a wheelchair. Most of you covered in bandages and gauze. So different now. How are you?"
I started to stand to put my body in front of him, to block what seemed to have become endless babble. "We don't need anything right now; I'll signal if we want to order."
Amit interrupted, "David, it's okay." And to the intruder, "Please, sit; join us. I think I remember you from that night, too."
"No, no. That's not right, I don't belong; I'm in your way." But he did sit. I think he knew, as I did; Amit wanted him there. At least then. There was nothing else for me to do. She wanted to do the talking now.
"This place, the restaurant. This is yours?"
"I wish. I'm just left running the place on weeknights. Like this." He swept his arm, I followed his gesture with my eyes and could see only ten, maybe a dozen, tables, all set for four. No other patrons; we were the only ones. "I'm at the front on the weekends. We're busier then."
"Who's Udi, then?" I could not sense where Amit wanted to go with this conversation, if that was what it was, but I knew that I needed to listen. To pay close attention.
"Udi? What do you mean?"
"Udi. Isn't that the name? Udi Hagadol - Big Udi?"
"Oh," the manager laughed. "That Udi. Yes, the first owner was named Udi. And God knows he was big. He had to squeeze in his huge gut every time he went behind the bar. But the place was wearing him down, even before the fighting started." Although he wanted to keep his focus on her good eye, to show her he was careful, I could see that his eyes flicked back to her eye patch and the scars on her face and along her left arm.
He glanced away. "So, Big Udi sold, got his money out, I heard, although I don't think he got very much. It was just a few months ago."
"Who is the new owner? Small Udi?" Amit laughed a bit. I could see an old pattern. Make the other person comfortable, draw them forward, nearer to her. I was still at a loss, however, as to what she wanted.
"Jakkov Kuntz, or Kluntz. Something like that. He rarely is here; never comes around during the week. I guess it's not worth his while."
"So, I see." Amit rose from the table and moved about the space, touching a napkin and place setting at one table, straightening the checked tablecloth at another. "Where is everybody, I wonder?" She looked directly at the manager. "It's not the food, is it? The view's still wonderful, even on today." Her eye now drew attention to the storm still raging in front of us, wave after wave crashing against the seawall, spume blown from the top of the wall to the two or three tables just under the canopy in front of us.
"It's okay." Not defensive; challenging, maybe. "But it's hard to cook for no one. And I mean no one. No one in the old city. So many are gone; they wouldn't stay after the war and what followed. Even the Arabs. They used to come in for a coffee and a pastry at times. Now, not even that."
"Where have they gone?"
"Not the States, that's for sure. Most to Europe, Portugal, and Spain, I hear."
"And the Arabs?"
"I can't say where the Arabs have gone. It's never easy for them."
"Why? Why are they leaving?" Amit continued to move about, almost as though she was searching for something on one of the tables, something left from the last time she was there.
"There's nothing left. No jobs. That's the easy answer. No jobs if you're not connected, and even then, it's hard."
"But you think it's more than just that, don't you." Amit had come back to the table.
"I do. It's hard to say. But it's almost -"
"- like not being able to breathe." She finished for him.
"Yes. I guess that's one way to say it. I keep hoping for change, but there's been little good so far."
Silence. I could see the rain had lessened. Sunlight in stark, brilliant shafts showed against the clouds off to the west.
"David, let's go. I need to. Let's." Amit was up and moving.
I put some bills on the table, thanked the manager, who protested that he had done nothing and please, please for us to stay for a coffee and a sweet. "On the house!" he said over and over. Finally, I could only turn and dash off after her. I was sure I knew where our next stop would be, where she had always intended for us to go. She had demanded I wheel her to the old Jewish cemetery on that other night; she was returning there now, only a few hundred meters from the restaurant. Then, we had slowly moved among the headstones, a few were fresh, almost new. But most old, the names and dates barely legible. She had held her good arm and hand up to stop me in front of one of the oldest. A simple block of limestone. The star at the top had mostly eroded away over the years and little of the names or dates was decipherable. It seemed to have been a family plot, but even that wasn't certain. This was where we returned to now.
"Do you remember what I said that day?"
"Of course. It was written on my forehead. In blood." I laughed a bit, nervous then, nervous now, at the intensity of what she had said. "'I won't be buried here, David. Never! Not now. Not ever. Remember!'"
Amit linked her arm in mine. "And more now, David, my one love. And more. I will not be buried anywhere in this land. It is no longer mine. Do you know what happened, David? I am not sure you ever heard."
We found a limestone bench close to graves and their simple headstones. It gave a little protection from the wind, and the late sun took some of the chill out of the air.
"Of course I heard. I talked to several soldiers from your unit and your commander when you were in hospital; they told me everything. That's why you were awarded the Distinguished Service Medal; I was there when they pinned it to your uniform, which a nurse had laid out on the chair next to your bed."
I remembered talking with the commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Busir, who reported what he had heard from several soldiers in Amit's unit. It was all the same. Still in the first month of the war, the army had just moved into Gaza. There had been a firefight in the first hours of the day. Her search-and-rescue team had been ordered to the scene; several soldiers were down; they had come under fire as they were picking through the rubble of a building destroyed in an air strike the night before. Amit's vehicle, in the lead, struck a mine and was engulfed by the explosion. After pulling the other two soldiers to safety, she ran in the direction of the incoming fire, killing at least one hostile and driving the others off. Amit returned to her unit to complete the extraction of soldiers they'd been sent to rescue, as well as the two who had been in her vehicle when it was hit. She only allowed medical attention for herself when this had been completed.
I heard this account while we were standing by Amit's bed in the hospital. How had she done all this? This figure, who was more mummy than human, tubed and wired like some horrible experiment, was not the warrior who had just been described to me. What had been the cost? Now, as I looked at her seated by me in the graveyard, the question remained.
"David, the story is true. At least what they told you was true. But not complete."
She leaned against me and pressed her head to mine. "I tell this only to you, my love, only to you. No one ever talks about the dust and the fear. And what your eye sees when only one part of your mind is working. We had been sent in; we were proceeding slowly down a track to where we knew the soldiers were, the ones we needed to extract. It was first light. I could see, barely."
She was quiet. I felt her shiver, the memory was palpable again.
"I didn't see her until she was right next to my window. Young, not more than fifteen, maybe younger. Her head was covered. But I saw her face; her face was clear. She smiled at me. I remember she waved at me with her right hand; I didn't see her left hand, but that must have been when she attached the mine to our vehicle. And ran."
I wondered if her silence was the end of the story she wanted to tell - had to tell, it seemed. I had not known Amit ever to be so silent. If there was something to be said, she'd say it regardless of its effect or cost.
"No training can ever prepare you for an explosion like that, a bomb going off under you. The flames and smoke were everywhere; I couldn't hear. They had told us in training that our 'jeeps' were armored to withstand IEDs; we were even shown video of jeeps and other armored cars driving over IEDs and continuing on, past the smoke and the sudden jolt."
Silence again.
"Even now I wonder why I was able to move. I yanked Itamar across the console, little more than a hole, and pulled both of us to the ground and away from the jeep, and then hauled Alon from the back. I started firing at movements I could see down the track. I was running, although I think I was doing little more than limping."
Amit turned back to me, her voice barely above a whisper, "I found her. She was hiding in a hollow made in the rubble of the buildings that were destroyed around us. I shot her. No, that's not true. That's not what I did. I pulled her from her hiding place. I screamed at her. I smashed her face with the butt of my rifle. I drove her to the ground. I pulled the hijab back. She lay whimpering in front of me. Turned out she wasn't even thirteen; flat-chested, not yet a woman. I put three rounds into her.
"I see her smile every night."
I stayed, but we didn't even have a year from that night. I don't think I realized when the days became dark and full of fear and hate. But by the end, sleep was the only place where anger didn't reign. By the end, we walked around each other like wild, wary field creatures, seeking an opening. She found it first.
"I can't stand your charity. I feel your pity. Your false concern for me. Look at me! Look! You know what I am talking about! You can't see me. You can't even look at me now."
I raised my eyes. She was haggard. The burned part of her face almost glowed red, as it did when she was angry, when her blood was up. Her beauty left her at these moments. Even her raven black hair appeared strangely gray. We were close, our circling had ceased. I reached my hand out to her, which she slapped away. Reminding me of the warrior who was always close to the surface.
"I hate this. I hate you. I hate them."
"Amit, oh, Amit, Amit." I knew what I had to do. "I'm going. I can always come back if you need me to. Want me. I will let Yair know. Maybe you'll let him help you."
And help me, I thought then. And now at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic. Once I had recovered from the shock of Yair's voice and what he was telling me, which I made him repeat several times before I was able or even willing to accept what he had said, we began to plan.
"I have talked to her neighbors, David. And the handyman who works around her building. It's been more than a week since she'd been seen. And do you remember that coffee bar right by the theatre? Near Batsheva Dance? Amit would always go there for a coffee. I met her there several times. I went there."
"Did they remember her?"
Yair was quick: "Of course. Everyone remembered her. And not only because of her face. Amit would talk to whoever was on staff. The workers. Mostly the ones who had just arrived - had just come to Israel. She was always after them: Why had they come? Would they go back? Why were they staying?"
Yair had paused then. For a moment I wondered if our connection had been cut.
"I don't know if I can tell you this."
"What is it, Yair? Come on! We're well past whatever it is."
"It's not what you think."
"Damn it! You have no idea what I think. Talk to me, Yair! Please." I had not seen Amit in at least a year. I would not have been surprised had she been with another man; I knew it would hurt. But leaving was my fault as well.
"She was close to one of the workers, a cook, I think. I was looking for him when I went there; I thought he would know."
"And did he?"
"He wasn't there. From what they said he had left maybe a month earlier. In fact, it was around then that they had last seen Amit, who had come in hoping to find him. When they said he was gone, she blew up, demanding his address, wanting to know whether he had a different cell, why didn't they know where he lived. The woman, who runs the place most days, said she became quite frightened."
I allowed myself a moment's pity for the barista; I knew how dangerous Amit appeared - and, in fact, was - when she was angry. There seemed no end to what she might do at those times.
"Did Amit get what she wanted?"
"I don't think so. They really knew very little about the cook. They weren't even sure of his name. Shlomo, the barista said. But she couldn't be certain. She told Amit that the cook had said something about going south; she couldn't say. I guess Amit calmed down a bit and then left."
"When was the last time you saw her, Yair. And a series of texts won't do."
"A month, I think it was."
"Yair?"
"Well, maybe more." Yair's sense of days was little better than his understanding of the true time difference between Tel Aviv and New York. "We were to have lunch. It was Saturday. I think I said something about having a festive Shabbat meal. She snapped my head off. 'Listen to me, Yair. Listen well.' She was furious. No wonder she scared you. What wildness! 'There is no Shabbat for me. There was peace once. Now, no more.'"
"But you saw her, really saw her. This wasn't some phone conversation half-remembered?"
"No, it was real. We didn't have lunch. That idea was gone, but we did have a coffee at a small cafe near the theatre, not too far from her apartment. She wouldn't speak to me - not in any real sense; I could never get her to talk the way she would when you were around. I couldn't even get her to talk about you. 'That's in my past, Yair,' she said. 'Some good, there. Mostly good, I think.' That was the one smile I saw. We must find her."
It took almost no time to taxi to the gate; there few other planes on the tarmac. And little time to get to passport control. I scanned my passport, the Israeli one. I thought it might get me through a bit more easily. There was only a momentary wait while the photo taken at the stand confirmed the biometric match. I stepped toward the arrivals hall.
"David Goldstone? You are David Goldstone?" A question, but not a question. "Would you step over here please?"
A young man, maybe late twenties, uniformed with some border control insignia, waved me over to where he was standing behind a small podium-sized desk. A slightly older woman, I thought her to be about my age, not uniformed, stood next to him.
"Your passport." He held out his hand. He made a show of examining it while the woman studied the computer screen on the desk. "I see you have been a regular traveler between America and Eretz Israel but haven't been here in what, two years?" The woman touched his elbow to draw his attention to the screen in front of her. "No, it appears it's closer to three." He held out his hand again: "Your United States passport, please." Again, a show of examining each page, and again the woman was conducting the important search on the computer screen in front of her.
"Why don't you use your US passport, Mr. Goldstone?"
"It seemed to make sense when I was back and forth, so I saw no reason to change this time."
"Why has it been so long? You used to travel to Israel quite often, it appears."
I knew they had more information at hand; hell, they probably knew more about me than I did. "The war."
"You didn't come back to fight?"
"My parents moved back to New York when I was ten. That has been my home since." He seemed to be waiting for more. "There was no need for me."
"Shouldn't you have let the IDF be the judge of that?"
"Perhaps, but that was not what happened."
"What happened?"
"I broke up with a woman I was with. I had to leave. And then my business kept me in New York, most of the time."
"Then what is the purpose of your trip today? Trying to reignite the flame?"
I thought there was a slight smirk. I adhered as close to the truth as possible. "No, my uncle asked me to come to help him on a business matter; he wants to sell some property."
"And that's what you do, Mr. Goldstone?" The woman's voice had an edge and was lower than I had expected. She was asserting herself and taking over the interrogation, for that is certainly what this had become. "You're a real estate maven? A broker?"
"No. Not at all. But I thought I could help my uncle. I still have contacts from when I was here more often. We keep in touch, and I thought they might be useful." There was no response from either. "Besides, it's my uncle. When he calls, you must come. No matter what."
"Calls? When did he call?" The woman was in charge.
"Two days ago; I could only get on the Thursday flight."
"You expect to stay how long?" The young man in the uniform seemed to want to get back into the lead, or perhaps the woman had made some signal that she was no longer interested in me as she pointedly returned to studying her screen and then sharply striking the keys.
"I can't say for certain; we could get lucky, and it will only be a few days, but I cannot stay for more than two weeks. My business in New York will need me back by then,"
"Where is your address in Israel?"
"With my uncle." I gave his address, an old apartment building off Jabotinsky.
"I hope you are right, Mr. Goldstone." He waved me on. "You should not stay longer than you've planned."
I took little notice of Ben Gurion after that. There were fewer people than I had remembered, and no human traffic jams in arrivals and at the taxi and bus stand. Yair, however, was exactly where he'd said he'd be. Tall, lean, belying his eighty some years, he was leaning against the passenger door of his four-wheel-drive truck, ignoring the passing cars and horns and shouts.
"David! You're here!" He grabbed my bag and threw it into the bed of the truck. He kissed me roughly on each cheek and held the passenger door for me to get in. We were on our way.
"Where is everybody, Yair? The flight wasn't that crowded, even in 'steerage,' where I must fly now. I didn't see a lot of people in the airport, either."
"We're not so welcoming, anymore. Particularly for those dressed like you. Or me. Look what I have been reduced to," pointing to his head. I hadn't noticed the knitted kippah held close to his steel-gray hair with a pin. He made a face.
"Is that why they pulled me aside after passport control? I was going to tell you. That was a first."
"That could've been it. That or something in their databases. Who knows what they are checking for? Even my friends from the army don't know. At least those I can still talk to."
I racked the seat back a bit; I had ridden with Yair many times in the past, trusting his sense of the road and the traffic around him, even at the impossibly high speeds he always drove. We were well past dawn; there should have been many more cars on the road, some competing with Yair and most staying clear. It was quiet. The flight and all the energy I had poured into the past days weighed on my eyelids.
Some while later I realized I was listening to Yair's voice. He was telling me about Amit, about the last few times he had seen her, had spoken to her. "She scared me, David. You know how she can be. So fierce. I would never have wanted to come up against her when she served. My God, she is a power! There were times I went to her apartment, and it would be fine. Just like old times when she was with you. But more and more recently, things were different. I often thought she hadn't bathed in days, her apartment was a mess, and her hair! I told you what she said and what she was like the last time I saw her. What I didn't say was that she had aged years and years. Haggard. Her hair little more than a witch's wig. It was awful."
"Have you checked hospitals?"
"Of course. As best as can be done. There is little interest in answering questions from just some friend - I'm not family, if you can understand. No one wants to help."
"We need to go to her apartment! Now! I must see what she left; that may tell me where she went, where she's going."
"How do you plan to get in? I don't think the landlord will be too welcoming."
I reached in my pocket to make sure it was still there. "I have my key."
Her apartment was in a small building on the edge of Neve Tzedek, an older building. No more than three stories and a handful of apartments. It was not what I remembered when I turned the key and opened the door, not even from the last few weeks we were together; words and wine and glasses had been thrown, creating stains that could not be cleaned or taken back. But none of that prepared me for the dirt, dust, unmade bed, and unwashed dishes - the chaos throughout the apartment. This was not Amit - not the way she lived. A lizard scurried across the floor when I stepped into her bedroom. I hoped the small box would still be there. Amit kept papers there, her passport, her medal, and the citation, rolled up and stuffed at the bottom. At one point I knew she was keeping a journal; it was part of a therapy. She never showed it to me, but I remembered her putting the journal in the box one night, back in better days.
It was there, tucked behind a pile of clothes at the back of the closet. The lock was easily broken, the journal at the top, as though it had been taken out recently. I paged to the last entry; there was no date.
David, this is only for you. Maybe others will have been here before. I can only hope.
Her face still haunts me each day. I must find her.
There was a time my life was good - I had you. I had hope. I do love you so, David. But her face won't leave me and no one else cares. They all have forgotten and don't want to be reminded, of her - not that they ever cared - or the others.
I may go to Shodeka Zikim. Some plan to resettle Gaza. I could join them. I might find her.
Remember your promise, David. Remember.
Amit
Yair insisted we leave her apartment and go to his; it was not far. "You need to rest, David. Some sleep after the flight will help, and then we can decide what to do. I know you want to follow her, but we need time to think about what we're doing, and I need time to get the sleeping bags and tent out and into the truck. We don't want to depend on others."
I did sleep.
It was dusk by the time we were back on the road. Yair had said it would not be smart to get on the highways much before. "Shodeka Zikim is hard religious; they'll not want to see a truck driving up to their gates, but it's the start of Purim tonight. I think it'll be okay to arrive after the party has been going for a bit."
I had little to say to that. My concerns were more internal and pressing to me than the time we would arrive and what might track us on the road. What were the words I could use to separate Amit from the nightmares consuming her?
With little to no traffic Yair had us past Ashkelon shortly before seven that evening and to the small two-track road leading to the moshav's entrance thirty minutes later. The lights surprised me. Bright strobes mounted high on power poles flashed when we were about one thousand meters from the entrance, and the high fence stretched off into the darkness on either side. I could see two armed guards at the barrier that crossed the entrance, a small gatehouse on the left, and a larger squat, heavily reinforced building off to the right-rear of the entrance, just past where the road continued and made a hard right turn. I heard a sharp breath as Yair slowed the truck to a stop at the barrier.
"Little welcome here, I think. Who do they think we are?"
"And who do they think they are?" I added. Each guard was carrying an ugly short-barreled weapon with a full clip already in place and another stuck in the sashes around their waists. The red bloused pants, white shirts, bandoliers, and Turkish fez caps completed their most improbable garb.
Yair put both hands at the top of the steering wheel, and then motioned to me with his eyes, glancing from me to the dashboard. I placed my hands there. Yair's voice was low and quiet. "I wonder where they got those rifles. They are late model Tavors - Bullpups. Scary weapons. I didn't think anyone other than the IDF had them."
The man on my side of the truck kept a pace or two back, his right hand around the ammo clip of his rifle. The guard opposite stepped forward and motioned to roll the window down. Yair took his left hand off the steering wheel and opened the window about two-thirds of the way. The guard leaned in, looking closely at Yair.
"Yes? You are here for Purim? As someone's guest?'
There was a powerful smell of alcohol as he spoke. I swiveled in my seat to face him and lifted my hand from the dash, held it out to him, palm up.
"No, not Purim. And not as guests. We are hoping to find someone, a woman. She left a message that she was coming here, and we have gotten worried."
"Does she have a name, this woman?"
"Amit. Amit Shafran, although she rarely tells anyone her last name. Has she been here?"
"Does she know people who live here? She's visiting them?"
"I don't think so; I'm not certain she came. She just left a message. Only to me."
"What does she look like, this Amit person?"
"She's about 1.8 meters tall, slim. Long black hair and wears an eye patch over her left eye."
Yair added, "She may appear more a beggar now than anything else. We fear she's" - he searched for a word - "fallen..."
The guard on the left pulled back from the window and nodded to his companion, who whispered into a small transmitter on his bandolier. A few moments passed; he nodded again and stepped forward.
"Go straight past the gate and follow the road around to the right; there will be a road leading off to the left just past the building you see at the junction." He pointed to the low building in front of us. "Make the left turn and stop. The moshav's doctor will meet you." He motioned to the other guard to pull the barrier back and waved us through.
Four people were gathered at the back of the building where Yair brought the truck to a stop. As we got out, a woman walked to the passenger side and extended her arm, palm facing up. We were to stop - come no closer. She dropped her arm to her side. "I'm Dr. Yagille, Ayelet Yagille. And you are?"
"David Goldstone."
Yair stepped forward. "I'm his uncle. Call me Yair."
Dr. Yagille didn't respond and kept her eyes directly on me. "Who is this woman you're looking for? Does she have a name?"
"Amit. Amit Shafran. She was in the IDF. She was wounded, fighting in Gaza in the first months of the war, losing an eye. And bad burns on her left arm."
"She is here. I'm sorry. But she is dead."
"How? How can that be?" My nightmares were made real. Yair had crumpled next to us; he sounded like a wounded animal, grunting and crying at once.
The doctor crossed her arms, placed her hands against her shoulders and took a short step closer to me. "Aryeh can tell you more. Come. Let's go over to him and the others. I think you need to hear what happened."
I tugged and pulled Yair to his feet, put my arm about his shoulders to steady his steps, and followed her over to the small group. Dr. Yagille motioned to the man standing in the center of the remaining three. Burly, shaved head, he was costumed, but differently than the guards. He carried himself easily, as though accustomed to being in control. The kaffiyeh now around his shoulders had probably been wrapped around his head and neck earlier that night. One of the women standing with him was dressed as though she was trying out for a part in an old pirate movie. The other was wearing a full hijab.
I don't remember the words in Aryeh's story that night, only an outline of what had happened. At some point in the evening, after a Purim pageant, the children of the moshav were running around the bonfire and their parents and families were having the many required glasses of wine. Aryeh saw Amit standing near his daughter and then tugging at her as she tried to pull away. He thought he could hear his daughter shouting at the women, could see her turning and twisting to escape from this strange person's grasp. And a quick round of questions and responses confirmed that no one in Zikim knew her. That's when the screaming started. Aryeh said that the strange woman kept pawing at his daughter, grabbing at her, clutching her, grabbing the hijab that she had chosen for her costume. Yelling, "You're alive! Alive! Not possible! I killed you! I smashed your face; I shot you!" His daughter pulled away and ran. Amit tried to run after her but tripped and fell, striking her head against a stone at the edge of the bonfire.
Dr. Yagille was waiting for this moment. "They called me, of course. But - your friend - was dead by the time I arrived." The doctor waved the others away. "Now, we have a problem. And I hope you can help. We could bury your friend here, in Zikim. But we would have to report this, and there would be an inquiry and the police, and that will take time. Time we don't have."
Yair stepped away from me to face the doctor. "What can you mean? You don't have time! A woman has died on your moshav, and you fear a report?"
But it was Aryeh who answered, "Yes, yes. We are saddened by her loss, by your loss. But the first group, the first settlers for greater Israel, are to set out for Gaza tomorrow."
"Greater Israel!" Yair spat on the ground. "You have no shame. You will destroy the country, that we built - you may already have."
Aryeh stepped in, close to Yair. Almost a head shorter, but stout, strong, and threatening. "That you built? You and your kind would have a country of Tel-Avivists. Secular, easy lives. Not real Jews. Not willing to claim the land that is ours, has always been ours, given to us by God."
Yair remained steady, still. "The sacrifice I made; the brothers I lost in the Sinai, were real enough. We saved the state you are setting out to destroy."
"But all too willing to let it go, to give up our land in a fool's pursuit of a peace with those who never want peace; as long as there're Jews to kill. We will sacrifice for the land. We will do so now."
"Amit is the one who really did sacrifice herself for Israel, not the likes of a pitiful band of settlers." Yair turned back to me: "We should call the police for this!"
"No, Yair. Not now." I knew what we had to do. "You and I will take Amit. She would want that. We will bury her here, nearby." I could see both Aryeh and Dr. Yagille raise their hands in protest. "There is open land. If we go now, we can finish before any light. Before we are noticed."
I started walking to the door of the low, squat building. I knew that was where Amit was. I could not keep the promise, but she would not be in a graveyard. There would be wildflowers in the field; chamomile would soon bloom.
I’m not going to comment on the politics. But the core of the story is about a warrior who killed a young person and could never settle her heart and mind after that. The interruption of her romance was a sad side outcome. The story is very sad. Many people wanted to connect to her…the warrior…but she was psychologically and physically scarred.
ReplyDeleteThis is a universal story of war. Thank you for it!
DeleteJune - thanks for reading and your comments. I think of this--Graveside--as a love story, one where the ending is softened by the love that is still present.
DeleteThis began as a wistful tale of star-crossed lovers, but rapidly devolved into a story of lives racked by the ruination of age-old wars. The impact of territorial and national conflict comes to the fore and the l hoss expressed is profound. Amit's dedication to the cause and her profound guilt over having slain a murderous teenager spells her end. This is a very sad tale, a long one--I measured it at just under 10,000 words--but I was glued to the page. Excellent job, Chris Reid, you are a marvelous writer.
ReplyDeleteThank you, sir! Careful reading and good to hear. The "star-crossed" lovers are, indeed, undone by war and the actions taken. I think it is often so, no matter how we might hope for it otherwise.
DeleteComplicated, sigh…
ReplyDeleteThanks--you have taught me much about the complications and their consequences. I am glad that some of that came through.
DeleteLike Bill, I was glued to the page as I read this harrowing tale. The story's atmosphere is compelling, and the narrator's voice is convincing. Well done!
ReplyDeleteThank you for taking the time to read - and I am very heartened to know that the horrors of war and conflict came through for you.
DeleteI am so proud of the FOTW readers who have dared to read a 10,000-word story and appreciate it as the fine literature it is. I, too, am sometimes deterred by the length of long fiction. As you can see, it was time well spent.
ReplyDeleteThanks - you praise is an honor.
DeleteCongratulations—very well written, flows smoothly, and such a sad, poignant story. Riveting. Reminiscent of A Farewell to Arms in that regard—the love during wartime, the sadness, and that we don’t get as much of the woman’s motivation to fall in love with David as we might like. Whatever did they have in common, after all? Or does that matter? As with Katherine and Frederic Henry in Hemingway’s novel, during war love just happens. Understandable that Amit could be driven mad by remembering how she killed the teenage girl who affixed the explosive device to their tank. I found the denoument more foreshortened (abrupt) than I wanted it to be when I was reading, but I can see that elaboration would have been difficult and ultimately not necessary. Thanks for letting us know about “Graveside.” I will remember your story for a long time.
ReplyDeleteJeff-thank you so much for your close and careful reading. I think--you're kind to reference Hemingway!--love does happen in war and elsewhere pretty suddenly and with no warning. In this case, David is in love from the first meeting. We're always bludgeoned by death; I never think there is a denouement. But that is just me; I need to think about it more. Again, so many thanks.
DeleteA beautiful and shattering story giving insight into the unbearable pain of war. I loved the imagery and nuance.
ReplyDeleteRobin - your reading of the story is very important - the pain of war is shattering, but the hope, the wildflowers that grow around the grave, may bring some solace.
DeleteThis is not your usual love story. War pervades the possibilities between the lovers. But this is not just a "us vs. them" war. It is also a "them vs. them" and "us vs. us" war. No sides in this story. Well done Chris!
ReplyDeleteThank you. War pervades all possibilities from its very outset and what happens to David and Amit, the lovers, may be also archetypes for so many of the losses that occur.
DeleteA haunting read. I was riveted from first word to last. Thank you for highlighting an important perspective that we don't hear about and need to. I feel more informed.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your comment/ I appreciate your careful reading of Graveside very much.
DeleteWhile much is remarkable about Chris R.'s story - tone, language, invention - "Graveside," though a 'short story,' approaches the novelistic in its sweep of time and place and by chronicling its credible characters bent in unpredictable ways, the course of their lives re-set by events ranging from the visceral landscape of war to tremors of emotion. Credibility is skillfully, quickly established by details of itinerary and yes, even food! It all aligns into a fine, readable work.
ReplyDelete"Haunting" is a great word for this story. Vivid imagery, poignant details, intriguing dialogue. Great work!
ReplyDeleteThis is a great read. Well written and haunting. Crafted well from start to finish and I look forward to future stories.
ReplyDelete