of that is still in her — in her blood or her heart, in a place so deep she never even knew it was there. The place of stories buried in the blood. She can hear the hoofbeats of the Cossacks as they ride into her grandmother’s shtetl, and sees them sitting high on their horses as they beat, spear, and murder Jews. Then they pillage, loot, and set fire to everything, and through it all they’re laughing their drunken laughs. As they ride off, they’re singing boisterous carefree songs, leaving behind them the lingering stench of smoke, blood, sweat, vodka, dying bodies, destruction, and fear. Mingling with this smell, there are sounds: the wailing of women and children, dogs barking, and the moans of the wounded. Her heart is pounding now. We need a safe place, she thinks. That’s what people need — especially the vulnerable, persecuted, and powerless. She glances around her with a hunted look. That’s what SWAC is for. To be a safe haven. An island of justice. A place to stand up against oppression in every form.
— 6 —
At home, the house is dark and cold. Soon it will be winter, she thinks. She raises the thermostat and walks through the darkness to her computer. This is always her priority and first point of contact when she comes home from school: her emails from Israel. She works on her computer in the dark, liking the shiny square screen surrounded by the night. This evening there are the usual dozen messages from the Israeli listservs she’s on. There are two peace groups — at war with each other, of course — as well as a feminist social action forum, a left-wing chat room, and an organization that promotes civil rights and pluralism in Israel. But tonight she also has three personal letters. It will be a good evening, she thinks — an evening spent connected to people who love her and whom she loves. She will be “virtually” in Jerusalem.
But she doesn’t open her little treasure trove right away. She wants to postpone these moments of love and comfort. Like postponing in sex so you can enjoy not just the act itself, but also the pleasure of anticipating it. She goes into the kitchen and drinks a cup of cocoa. Then she returns to the computer and studies her inbox. Of the three emails from friends, she decides to read Rina’s first. Rina’s letter opens by saying how delighted she is that Judith is enjoying Dunhill, and she doesn’t doubt for a moment that she’ll succeed splendidly in grad school. Judith, reading this, is gratified. Rina has always had this iron confidence in her — it’s one of the bonds of their friendship. Then Rina writes about her new job teaching Shakespeare at the university, about Michel’s job (there are cutbacks at the hospital now, but so far he hasn’t been affected), and about their three teenagers: Gidi, Uri, and Yael. The oldest, their son Gidi, is going into the army in two months, and the twins, a boy and a girl, will go a year and a half later. Then Rina writes:
Apart from “the situation” — if that isn’t an oxymoron, because of course there is nothing that is “apart from the situation” — we are okay. We don’t go out much, though. With suicide bombings now almost weekly in Jerusalem, it’s safer to just stay home, huddled with those you love. Many restaurants now offer home delivery: that’s the only way they keep from going bankrupt. You can order in not just pizza and Chinese food, but everything. The main thing now is not to go out. Downtown is still the worst place, but actually we don’t go anywhere we don’t absolutely have to. My daily routine, my life, is remarkably reduced now. It’s just from home to work, and then back home again, except for essential errands like buying food.
Judith can picture Rina and Michel and their kids — all three teenagers with red hair and freckles — pacing like caged leopards around their claustrophobically small apartment, with Rina’s shrill voice yelling at the kids five times a day for leaving their stuff in a mess all over the house or for playing their music too loud, and Michel withdrawing more and more into his study. Rina writes that last Shabbat, at the end of a tense afternoon, Gidi, Uri, and Yael, in a rare united front, confronted her and Michel.
“You can’t keep telling us not to go out,” they said. “We’re not babies anymore — two months from now Gidi’s going into the army. And all our friends are allowed to go out. There’s a concert downtown tonight — Mashina’s performing and everyone’s going, and we want to go, too. Just because you guys want to stay cooped up at home doesn’t mean we also have to. If you want to bury yourselves alive, go ahead. But we’re young …”
Better buried alive than buried dead, I thought, but I stopped that before it came out of my mouth. Because I wasn’t sure if it was even true. What sort of a life, I asked myself, am I advising my children to live? What am I really teaching them — to live lives so full of fear they just hide in their holes all the time like little mice? That would be a victory for the terrorists, if anything would.
So in the end, with all my doubts and hesitations I’m no better than Hamlet. Like him, I’m weak. I caved. I gave in. I let them go to that club downtown with their friends. I told myself: Life, youth, hope must triumph over fear. Don’t you agree, Judith? I hope — I think — I’m right.
Judith frowns. She isn’t sure. On the one hand, she is full of admiration for Rina. She’s braver than I am, she thinks. But at the same time she’s appalled: How could you have let them go? How would you ever live with yourself if something happened to them? Still frowning, she reads the end of Rina’s letter:
Anyway, letting them go to the concert had a side benefit: it gave me and Michel the house to ourselves for the first time in months. And we had the most wonderful sex — delicious, drawn-out, and … noisy! Something amazing …
Judith laughs. What a crazy country. What a crazy world.
The next email is from Yonina. The exhibit of her paintings at the Artists’ House closed yesterday. It was quite well received, she writes. A few days after the opening there was a good review in the weekend supplement of Yediot. And given “the situation,” she supposes she should be grateful any people at all left their homes to come see her exhibit. Anyway, she writes, this will likely be her last exhibit for some time. The arts grants have all been cut — to free up money for more guns, bombs, and missiles, no doubt — so pretty soon she’ll have to find a job, or jobs (probably some combination of waitressing and teaching art to kids like she did a year ago). So, Yonina concludes her letter, so much for painting for a while.
Reading this, Judith feels a pang. She loves Yonina’s pictures. They are fabulous and vivid, with lots of bright blues and greens, and they’re full of parrots and other birds in jungle scenes. Her paintings seem simple, but in fact are subtle, nuanced, multi-layered, and complex. So much for painting for a while — and Judith pictures a parrot being shot down by a cannon.
With a deep sigh, Judith stands and arches her back. Then she circles the room a few times before returning, like a homing pigeon, to the dining room table and her third email. She’s saved Bruria’s letter for the end. The best for the last. She is in much more frequent contact with Bruria than with any other friend: they write each other twice or three times a week. So Bruria’s letters have a special quality of immediacy and continuity. Judith opens her letters almost like a fan of a soap opera eager for the next installment. What is the latest development in the ever-unfolding saga of Bruria’s life, with all its different subplots: marital, familial, social, professional, and political? But none of Bruria’s previous emails could have prepared her for the one she opens now. Bruria’s son Noah, Noah with the heart-shaped lips and golden curls, is in prison for refusing to continue doing military service in the occupied territories. He’s been there for the past three days, since just after Bruria last wrote. This has all happened very quickly. Today’s letter, astounding for someone as meticulous about language as Bruria, is full of typos, spelling mistakes, and half-finished sentences. It’s hysterical and breathless, and if a letter could be one great long sob, this one is. Or perhaps, rather, it’s a series of broken screams, like shvarim, the broken blasts of the shofar at the end of Yom Kippur. Bruria writes she is proud of Noah — she knows that what he’s doing is morally right. But she is also terrified for him. He’s been in solitary confinement for three days, and she and Pinchas haven’t been allowed
