I got us an apartment in a nice family neighbourhood near the university," he replied. "Apparently a lot of the faculty live in the area. It's called French Hill."
"French Hill," I repeated under my breath. I liked the name of the place. It sounded almost familiar, like a neighbourhood you might find in Canada.
But it didn't look at all like Canada when we arrived. The taxi pulled up at an apartment building on a quiet street, set a bit back from the main road. Surrounded by olive and lemon trees, the building was made from large blocks of bumpy, dust-coloured stone. Nothing at all like the red and brown brick buildings I was used to back in Toronto.
"That's Jerusalem Stone," explained Dad, noticing me staring. "They chop it right out of the ground near the Jordan River. By law, every structure in Jerusalem must be built with it."
I nodded and opened the taxi door. The instant I stepped out, an overwhelming aroma of spice and frying oil wafted under my nose. Jerusalem definitely didn't smell like Canada, either!
Dad paid the driver and we walked into the building, dragging our bags behind us. The first thing I noticed was the list of tenants on the apartment mailboxes.
"Har-Zahav … Ben-Shahar … Yedidyah … Zahavy … Machuv … Azoulay," I whispered under my breath, sounding them out slowly. Each one of them was a tongue twister.
"So where to now, Dad?" I asked, glancing around the rest of the lobby, half-hoping there would be another Canadian from the university there to greet us. But the only other person in the lobby was a middle-aged woman puffing away on a cigarette — even though it was clear from the signs that this was a non-smoking building. I tried to breathe through my mouth so I wouldn't smell her stinky cloud of smoke, but it didn't work. Christina and I tried smoking a couple of years ago. Back then, I thought smoking a cigarette would be glamorous and very grown-up. But it didn't feel that way at all. In fact, after three puffs, I ended up with my head over the toilet talking to Ralph on the big white telephone. Pretty glamorous, huh? And ever since then the smell of smoke grosses me out.
Dad rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a folded envelope. Inside was a key chain and a small piece of paper.
"Says here that we're on the top floor," he said, walking over and pushing the button for the elevator. We rode it up to the top, which didn't take very long since there were only four floors in the building. It felt weird riding an elevator to my home; until this moment, I'd always lived in a house.
At door number 403, Dad turned the key in the lock and we stepped inside. Instantly, a feeling of relief came over me. Finally, here was something that reminded me a bit of home — Nana Pearl's condo back in Toronto, to be specific. Like Nana's, the furniture was a mix of modern pieces and older antiques. And, like Nana's, the space was roomy and open — more than enough for two people to live comfortably.
I dropped my bag in the front hall and ventured further in. There was a small television set at one end of the living room and an upright piano at the other. On the wall in between, an arched wicker bookshelf housed a collection of paperbacks, which, I was relieved to find, were all in English. The floors were covered in tile instead of carpet or hardwood. Despite the dark furniture, however, the place was pleasantly bright with rays of soft evening light streaming in through the windows. And thankfully, there was air conditioning.
I wandered further and found the kitchen. The appliances looked new but there was less floor and counter space than what I'd been used to at home. And the oven was the tiniest I'd ever seen. How can anybody roast a Christmas turkey in that? I opened up the cupboards and peeked inside; they were bare but clean. I closed them up again and thought about my old kitchen in Toronto. In the past year I'd pretty much taken over the cooking duties. On Dad's nights, we just ordered pizza. In the beginning, I hadn't really minded. But after a year, I was sick of it. When the delivery guy starts to feel like a member of the family, you know you've got problems. Every time he rang our bell, it reminded me of how alone Dad and I were.
It was in that kitchen back home, three months ago almost to the day, that Dad had dropped the bombshell about Israel. I'd known something was wrong when I found him chopping vegetables for a tomato sauce.
"What are you doing? It's my turn to do dinner tonight," I reminded him, pointing to the calendar of household chores that hung on the fridge.
But he just smiled mysteriously and kept chopping. Actually, it was more like hacking.
"I know you're getting tired of all those pizzas, so I thought I'd try making something myself. And actually, I have a bit of exciting news."
News?
I sat down on the nearest chair and waited. I could tell by the tone of his voice that it was going to be big.
"I've been offered a prestigious honour at work," he began. "Something I've been dreaming about most of my career. It's a visiting professorship at The Hebrew University in Jerusalem for the coming school year. I'm going to be the associate director of the continuing excavation in Tiberias."
My jaw dropped open. "Um, what exactly does it mean?" I could feel the muscles in my chest begin to tighten up — somehow I knew his answer wouldn't be good.
Dad put down the chopping knife and reached for my hand. "Honey, it means that, as of July, we'll be moving to Israel."
"What?" I gasped, staring at him as if he'd just announced that we were re-locating to the moon. "Who? You and me?"
"That's right," he replied, his smile fading fast, "I … I was hoping you'd be surprised!"
I shut my eyes for a second and tried to make some sense out of what I was hearing. When I opened them again, I could tell by the deep frown lines on his forehead that this wasn't a joke.
"No! We can't go to Israel!" I said, yanking my hand away. "We're Canadians! This is our home!"
"Of course this is our home," he said gently, "but saying no to an honour like this would be like turning down the Nobel Prize. Anyway, travelling to a new place is an adventure. It's only for a year. I thought this would be a great opportunity for us."
I felt like screaming, An adventure? Are you crazy? But when I opened my mouth, no words came out. My chest was getting tighter and tighter — it was getting hard to breathe, let alone talk.
Until that moment my entire religious experience had been limited to Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and a couple visits to Christina Georgas's Greek Orthodox Church. What on earth would we do in Israel?
"But Dad," I finally managed to squeak out, "we're not religious at all! We're not even Jewish! Why do you want to go there?"
He waved away my concerns.
"You don't have to be Jewish to live in Jerusalem. It's considered the centre of many different religions. And the opportunities for archaeological study are tremendous! Tiberias is a fascinating place, Mack: an ancient city where Jesus preached back in Biblical times. And the team in Israel is hoping I can help them uncover signs of Herod's palace. Just imagine … I might help to discover one of the greatest archaeological treasures in history. You can even help on the dig if you want — it'll be exciting!"
Herod's palace? Unearthed antiquities? Exciting?
"You can't make me, Dad. I … I won't go!"
He took a deep breath, as if he needed to gather
