Fracture Point Page 6

  Dad had been eating light dinners by himself at the time. He looked at me and didn’t say anything. His tapped his leg nervously, and he had some cheese on his chin. He chewed in silence. He looked over at Sharon and then back at me. He didn’t know how she would react to this and he must have been afraid of this very thing happening, just as she must have been. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what a little shit I was.

  “Goddamnit!” I screamed and went to my room. My father’s deep voice came in through the walls and I heard him even though I covered my ears.

  “He’s just a kid. Don’t take it personally,” he said, trying to console her. I was a little shit − that was what I was.

  “The boy needs a car,” she said to my father, who had been trying to convince me to live close to work and get a monthly bus pass. I said I needed a car so I could have my independence and go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Sharon looked at me understandingly and gave my father a triumphant look.

  “What can I say? You know why I don’t like the idea,” he said back then.

  Of course we knew.

  Sharon had come into our lives when I was nine, three years after Mom had left one day and never returned.

  Doreen was too small to understand at the time, so everyone told her Mom was in the clouds. Dad didn’t bring her to the funeral so she wouldn’t ask questions that no one could answer.

  I was there at the funeral, and I saw the gravedigger tipping the stretcher with my mother’s body. I saw her slide into the grave they had dug, her covered head lolling from side to side. She looked so alive, as if she enjoyed sliding into her grave − the same way I enjoyed going on the slides at the playground.

  My mom worked as a lawyer; she and my father had met as interns. That damned morning she gave me a kiss and drove to the office of the real estate company where she worked. After school, I picked up Doreen from kindergarten, just as I did every day, and we walked home together. When we got home, the house was full. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, and the neighbors were there. I was happy because that meant there was probably good food and possibly cake. I didn’t even try to figure out what the occasion was. In my six years I had never managed to keep track of birthdays, especially not of the huge Halabi side of the family. I was too young to be bothered.

  I said hello to both sets of grandparents and kissed them. Mom always said, “Grandma and Grandpa first,” but this time they were not happy to see me.

  “Doreen, Itay, please come here,” my father said. It looked as though he was mad at us.

  The house was completely silent. I noticed because I heard our steps going up the three stairs to the bedrooms. There were too many people in the living room for such silence.

  “Something . . . something terrible has happened,” he said as he sat down on the small chair Doreen always sat on when she made colorful drawings for Mom.

  Doreen sat down on my bed. She was sucking her thumb and holding a Barbie doll in the other hand. I lay down on the soft carpet that Mom vacuumed twice a week.

  “Today, on her way to work . . . Mom . . . had . . . was in . . .”

  Dad’s face was sweating, his cheeks all red. I clenched my fist at the end of the carpet tightly, while Doreen kept turning her doll around and around. Her eyes were fixed on the doll’s light hair. It seemed like everyone’s lives in the room had just been turned upside down, except for hers. When Dad burst out crying, I realized that something terrible had happened to Mom. Maybe she was hurt, and we needed to go to the hospital to visit her. Maybe she’ll even need surgery and is in pain.

  “Mom was killed,” my father wept, with his face in his hands, the tears falling as though from a waterfall. The door behind him opened. Grandma Bianca had her hands on her chest and wasn’t breathing. Doreen looked up from her doll and Dad and remained indifferent. He was crying bitterly into his hands, wailing like a wounded dog.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I looked over at Grandma Bianca. She stood there looking at us with a hollow gaze. Her thick glasses barely covered her baffled stare and terrible pain.

  “But Dad . . .” Doreen said, looking back at her doll. Dad’s face was still hidden but he stopped crying at once. His deep, sharp breath filled the room.

  “When is Mom coming back?” she asked. Grandma Bianca let out a tormented sigh and Dad’s hands fell from his face. He looked at Doreen − his face wet, his mouth shaking − but all he could muster was a feeble, “What?”

  Until that day, and ever since, we’ve never seen Dad fall apart like that.

  Chapter 10

  The car tilted when huge Arik sat down in the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

  “What are you writing there?” he asked as he patted his jeans pockets in search of his keys, which he found in his bag. While I was waiting in the cold car, I sketched a drawing of Donna in a robe. She’d bought a pink robe because it was like the one in her favorite song, “Atur Mitzchech.”

  Arik had left me in the freezing car without the keys as he went up to his apartment. It was November, and the Jerusalem winter was already cold. I was about to start my studies the next day, without even a day off between the course and the beginning of the school year. Obviously, “ISA-Jerusalem District” didn’t appear on the Google Map search, so Arik and I had to check the route on a map, the way people used to do before the era of apps.

  The early morning news came on the radio: “Following a serious military incident, the details of which are currently under a gag order, a large IDF force has been transferred to the West Bank over the last few hours.”

  Arik got into the car and closed the door. “Just yesterday I finished the course,” he mumbled in his accent that was hard to understand, “and we’re starting to work already. Why couldn’t I have some vacation time?” he said, turning towards me.

  He was waiting for me to agree, but instead I just thought about how I don’t feel like ever going back to the ISA fort in Jerusalem again.

  Arik drove slowly, just like he walked. As we arrived, he parked the car in the parking lot and we sat there in silence for a few seconds before going out into the cold air.

  We were very familiar with the conference room ever since the long waiting hours after the the attack on the facility. A huge ISA logo was above Amit Dabush, Head of Field Security. He knew our names immediately.

  His shiny, bald head, athletic body, and blue eyes made it hard to figure out how old he was. Probably somewhere between his late thirties and mid-forties. His wide shoulders represented a combination of genetics and the discipline of a security guard. He sounded a lot like Eitan, our course instructor. He spoke with confidence. If Sharon were here, she would have corrected his grammar in almost every sentence. His speech was full of quasi-military vocabulary, and he used words such as “response,” “modus operandi,” and “zone of action” way too much.

  “So you know how to shoot and fight . . .” Amit said with a bit of appreciation and a lot of sarcasm. “But there are several things you still don’t know. There are procedures for receiving a disk-on-key from a high-threat level HUMINT agent. Escalating hostage drills, the process of arresting wanted terrorists. How to monitor meetings, manage government VIP events, undercover operations,” Amit said, pausing long enough to take a breath. “And much more. Have I made myself clear?”

  There was silence, which was interrupted by the sound of a door closing. We all turned around. Billal, the 40-year-old agent handler who looked more like 25, walked in and winked at Amit.

  “Is it urgent?” Amit asked.

  “Have I ever come in here just to see how you’re doing?” he replied.

  Amit tightened his lips impatiently and walked around the circle we were sitting in to whisper to Billal. They were standing close to each other, speaking softly, and they didn’t blink once until Billal asked “All right?” and turned around without saying good-bye.


  Amit came back to us and asked if we had any further questions; obviously there were. In fact, from the looks on all our faces, it seemed as though we all shared the exact same thought.

  “What’s going on with the kidnapped soldier?” Leroy translated it into words.

  Amit seemed to be well prepared for this question and cut it short immediately. “We are not talking about that right now.”

  Leroy was always a step ahead of the rest of us. When we were learning, he already knew. When we knew, he was implementing. Once again, he showed knowledge and a healthy amount of audacity.

  “Aren’t the regular soldiers in the ISA just office clerks? What damage could he cause in captivity?” he asked.

  I didn’t quite understand my role in all of this, or whether I was the only one who felt this way. We all understood that we were heading for a difficult period. Amit was silent and just looked at us.

  During the course we had various unexpected tasks, such as building a temporary structure for tactical combat training, or a surprise announcement in the afternoon that instead of going to the hotel we would spend our evening at the shooting range. Every time we were notified of some unpleasant surprise, Bitton would put his hand in his beard and mutter, “rahat aleinu” - we’re screwed. This time Arik Goldstein patted him on the back and said “rahat aleinu.” I knew Bitton was about to imitate Arik by saying, “wahat aleinu.”

  “The soldiers who serve in the ISA work only in administration, don’t they?” Leroy asked, “What damage can he possibly cause? “

  Amit didn’t answer him. He looked at the other security guards and said, “If there are no more questions, then good luck to all of us. Tomorrow we’ll all get to work.” He headed towards the door and on his way out pointed his fingers like a gun in my direction and said, “Mr. Itay Evron, you will be the first to be tested by me. Starting tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter 11

  Summer faded and cold winds swept through the streets of Jerusalem. The news reported a stabbing attempt at the Qalandiya military checkpoint, and immediately moved on to the sports news.

  A soldier is captured in God-knows-where, and the world keeps spinning. On the day of the kidnapping, the weather was boiling hot, I remember myself sweating all over. It’s only been four months, and every time I come home from work it takes me at least 10 minutes to peel off the layers. Donna comes to my apartment at the end of the day. She gets along fine with her flat mates, of course (it belongs to Donna), but in my apartment, it’s only the two of us. Last week she came over with an umbrella for the first time.

  “It’s suffocating in here,” she scolded me, and opened the balcony doors. A breeze of cold wind entered the apartment and caressed her curls.

  “Sometimes I think that I’m in love with you because of this balcony,” she said, and I felt a pinch between my legs.

  She took off her clothes layer by layer, and every item she wore seemed to be made expressly for her.

  Leroy and I planned that he would come over for a beer. It was the first time he’d meet Donna, and it was obvious that there would be a click between the chilled-big-eyes-guy and the smiling one that everyone loves. I’d also met her friends from school, on some birthday night out she took me to last week. Every minute of the evening there was more than one person who wanted to talk to her, and her curls caressed my shoulders every time another friend asked for her attention. Even then, just like today, when we got back home I took advantage of a moment when she sank into the phone and launched myself as out of a cannon straight into bed.

  “Don’t you brush your teeth?” she asked me.

  “Of course I do.” I got up and brushed only my upper teeth to finish before her.

  She got into bed after me and reached under my hoodie.

  “Lucky for me that you didn’t put yourself in a space suit,” she said.

  She stroked my belly and kissed the back of my neck.

  “Do you love me?” she asked. Of course I do. But how to answer such a question?

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re attracted to me?” She asked, lowering her palm to my lower abdomen.

  “Yes.” I told her. “I need some more time.”

  She pulled her hand away, and I felt her breath in the back of my neck.

  How much patience will she have for a partner who doesn’t touch her? How much longer will she try to caress me at night and see me pretending to be asleep? I tried not to think about it because I was afraid of the answer.

  I turned onto my back and asked, “Do I bum you out?”

  I understood her response after half a minute of silence, even before she said, “I just . . . don’t quite know what to do.”

  We were silent. I closed my eyes and imagined again what had happened in Hafar al-Batin. The first barrage of shots. I felt the heat in my head again. I tried not to think about anything. Donna took a breath but said nothing afterward. I almost fell asleep when again Rubik’s figure bleeding from his stomach floated up and woke me.

  “I have issues,” I told her. “I also want it, just like you, but it’ll take time.”

  “Why don’t you share them with me?” she asked.

  “Not a chance,” I told her. She gave up, but only for tonight. The next day, she told me that we’re setting up a date when I would tell her everything.

  Chapter 12

  “Well,” she glanced at her wristwatch. It was Friday afternoon. The skies became orange-purple and the streets of Jerusalem were quiet and empty.

  “It’s a quarter to five,” she said and tied the apron to her waist. “And guess what? Bam! Great time to start our date, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Should I slice that too?” I asked as she poured the bag of beets on the counter. But she pointed with the huge knife to the little chair that came with the apartment.

  “You’re sitting. I’m listening,” she said and turned her back to me.

  For three years I didn’t think at all about the incident in Hafar al-Batin, because I tried very hard not to. And here’s this curly bitch issuing me an execution order.

  We were sure this village was in our pocket. We entered it like motherfuckers. We set up a table full of canned goods in a yard of some house we took over, with a high wall. Avichai Maman wanted to light a barbecue, but Rubik, our commander, told him not to push it.

  We left the yard stuffed and satisfied, and then it came: Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. A long volley of fire on all of us. We ran back to the walled courtyard. Not everyone ran back; some had been hit. Yonatan Alamo, our MAG machine gunner, was the first to recover from the shock and respond. He managed to stick his barrel over the wall and return fire. His heavy gunfire caused the enemy to take cover, and the shooting stopped for a while.

  I heard two or three of them shouting in Arabic. Avichai Maman also responded by throwing a grenade over the wall in the courtyard, but it was pointless because we still couldn’t identify the source of the fire.

  “Rubik, what do we do?” Alamo shouted to our squad commander over the continuous rhythm of the MAG firing. Rubik was lying on the ground behind him with his hands on his stomach. His green kippa was full of blood and mud, awkwardly sitting on his neck, and he was muttering incomprehensibly.

  I stared down at a green hose on the ground, next to Rubik. Water was dripping from it, creating a puddle of water and blood. I held on to my gun tightly, as if I needed to protect the weapon instead of it protecting me. Around me, injured soldiers were grunting, others were screaming.

  “Medic!” someone cried out.

  “Open fire!” I shouted, running outside towards the wall. I nearly stepped on Raz Lotan as he dragged his bleeding body behind the wall. I ran forward, following the trail of blood, which was laid out before me like a red carpet. All I could see was Buchnik lying in the middle of the path.

  Alamo shouted, “Open fire! Everyone!” as th
e bullets flew all around me, whistling by my ears.

  The gunshots hit the ground and sent dirt flying up in the air. It was like being inside a vast popcorn machine. Everything around me was moving, and the noise was ear-splitting.

  I started to run until I was thrown back by a blow to my chest. I fell on my butt, rolled onto my back and then immediately got back up and continued to run. I clenched my jaw so tightly that I heard one of my teeth crack.

  I could no longer see Buchnik. Everything was covered in smoke. I ran in the direction in which I had seen him, moving through the smoke until I got to him. I knelt down beside him and lifted him onto my shoulders. Buchnik was breathing into my ear. Usually, this would disgust me, but not today. I ran to the yard of the closest house. Buchnik squirmed in pain when I dropped him off my shoulder and onto the ground behind the courtyard wall. I turned around and saw at least two rifles firing at the squad from the house across the street. Alamo and two other soldiers returned fire, but it didn’t seem as if anyone was hitting their targets.

  I raised my gun to aim at the enemy in the window and was about to open fire, but suddenly I couldn’t see anything. One of the guys had thrown a smoke grenade to help me and Buchnik get back. The blood from Buchnik’s leg continued to flow. I didn’t have time to drag him through the smoke. I had to stop the bleeding immediately.

  Buchnik cried out when I put the tourniquet on his thigh. Every medic knows that if there’s one thing more painful than getting shot, it’s having a medic put a tourniquet on the bleeding limb. Buchnik knew that the pain I was causing him was better than the alternative, so he tried his best to keep quiet. My bulletproof vest had been shattered and sounded like a box of Legos. One of the bullets fired by the terrorists had hit me in the chest but was stopped by the vest, shattering it to pieces. I assumed the next shot would most likely kill me.