31 – Brooklin, Maine
“Hey-wo.” The voice coming through the telephone sounded no older than four or five. “Hello.”
“Is your, uh, your mother there, please. May I speak with her,” Debra Reuben spoke sweetly into the telephone, shivering slightly in the damp air, using the pay phone outside the Brooklin, Maine post office. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to speak to a child, it was so long since she'd spoken with anybody but Levi or the hard-eyed men in the desert at Dimona, putting aside that little incident at Jost van Dyke.
“No. Hold on. AUUUUUUNTSAAAAAAARAAAAAAH SOMEBODY WANTS TO TALK TO YOU,” the voice screeched. Then the sound of footsteps.
“Hello, this is Sarah,” a voice said.
“Sarah, this is Debbie, Debbie Reuben. I know its been a while but I really need to speak with you,” Reuben tried not to sound too desperate. Sarah Goldberg, now Sarah Goldberg-Goldhersh - “you can never have too much Gold,” she joked with friends when she announced her engagement - was Reuben’s sorority sister at Delta Phi Epsilon at Syracuse University. They stayed close for several years after graduation but drifted apart when Sarah became involved with Abram Goldhersh. He’d dragged her, reluctantly at first, then deeper and deeper into right wing Jewish politics. Goldhersh was a major supporter of the West Bank settlement movement in Israel. He’d helped found a settlement on the Golan Heights itself, but was delegated to return to the United States, where he was born, and act as a recruiter and fundraiser.
Sarah married more than Goldhersh. She married the settlement movement, a movement that believed the entire biblical Land of Israel, including the West Bank area occupied by two-and-a-half million Palestinians, was given by God to the Jewish people. Sarah and Abram were carried on the payroll of Abram’s uncle’s jewelry business in Portland, Maine, but few employees there would have recognized them. They crisscrossed the country raising money for the Movement. Sometimes, they purchased supplies, supplies that not even the government of Israel was anxious for the settlers to have, much as the government provided military protection for most settlements, surrounded by hostile Palestinians as they were. Nonetheless, there were some things, some weapons, the government felt were better left in the hands of the government.
Goldhersh became skilled at negotiating the clandestine weapons markets in towns outside American military bases across the country, places where soldiers could make beer money, and more, by smuggling special items off the bases. That was one of the other reasons he’d returned to Portland, Maine. It was an old seaport, not too large, not too small. International freighters called regularly, delivering containers from around the world, leaving with containers of American goods. Once in a while, a freighter left for the eastern Mediterranean and Goldhersh could ship a cargo container with “farm supplies” for his former settlement on the Golan. Goldhersh also had access to warehouse space along Portland’s waterfront, giving him a location at which to store his “items” until he could lock them into sealed shipping containers and send them on their way.
Homeland Security had finally got its act together to monitor shipping containers at American ports, but who cared about what was shipped out of the country? Only inbound cargo posed a threat.
Sarah knew most of what her husband did. More often than not, she joined him on his cross-country shopping trips. As they were more and more successful in purchasing such “surplus” military equipment, they cut ties to people outside the Movement, partly for security reasons but mostly because they had little time for anything but their work.
Debra Reuben had only an inkling of what her former roommate and her husband did, based more on hints and winks than on any solid information. One time a few years after Sarah and Abram were married, on a rare visit from her old friend, she and Sarah were watching the television news at Reuben’s parents’ house on Long Island. A story came on about a German passenger jet being shot down while taking off from the airport in Karachi, Pakistan, including videotape of the shoot-down by a ground-to-air-missile that was broadcast on Al-Jezeerah news. The news announcer said the missile was probably a Stinger provided by the CIA to Afghani mujahidin during the war against the Russians.
“No, not a Stinger,” Sarah mumbled, more to herself than to Reuben. “Stingers don’t leave dark contrails. Too slow for a Stinger, too. Probably an Igla. Russian.”
She noticed Reuben staring at her, mouth wide open.
“Sarah, what did you just say?”
“Uh, not a Stinger. The missile on TV wasn’t a Stinger. It went too slowly. It was a Russian missile. An Igla, maybe an Igla-2. Slower than a Stinger, but very accurate for a shoulder-fired weapon.”
She looked almost smug when she was finished, obviously pleased that she’d mystified her former sorority sister with knowledge no D-Phi-E in the history of that predominantly Jewish college sorority likely ever voiced.
“Sarah, how in the world do you know anything about shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles?” Reuben asked incredulously. “Did you see a documentary or something? I’m shocked.”
“Well, Ms. Some-Day-Hope-To-Be-A-Big-Television-News-Star, there are lots of things you don’t know about me. Lets just say that while we make our living in the bauble business, Abram and I have some side interests that take us places you’ve never been. All in a good cause, though, all in a good cause. A cause you might want to get more involved in yourself, you know. You shouldn’t forget who you are, Debbie.
“Sometimes I worry about you, worry that you are more focused on yourself than on more important things, like who you are, who your people are. Do you follow what I’m saying, Debbie? Do you understand my point?”
Reuben backed away from the Goldberg-Goldhersh’s over the following months. Finally, after one extremely uncomfortable weekend visit, Reuben intentionally stopped calling her former roommate. The irony was that while Sarah continued living in the U.S., eventually settling in Portland, Maine, where her husband’s uncle owned a chain of jewelry stores, it was Debra Reuben who ended up migrating to Israel.
They had not spoken in half a dozen years. On the telephone, Sarah was cold, at first, then an incredulous tone came into her voice.
“Debbie,” she said. “I thought you were in Israel, that you moved there, lived there permanently. I’ve been wondering about you, and, of course, about all the other poor Israelis we knew, but I really have been wondering whether you were OK.
“Debbie, you did live in Tel Aviv, didn’t you? To tell you the truth, I assumed you were dead. I’ve included you in my prayers. I said your name when I lit the candles. Debbie, its nice, nice to hear your voice.”
There was a pause as neither knew what to say. Then Sarah spoke.
“Debbie, tell me, where are you calling from?”
Debra Reuben hesitated. She was pleased that her former friend did not completely reject her, but she was cautious about saying too much.
“Sarah, it’s nice to hear your voice, too. You can’t imagine how nice it is to hear a familiar voice. And yes, I am alive. It’s a long story, a very, very long story. I can tell you most of it but not all of it. Yes, I was in Israel. I was there pretty recently, when the, you know, thing happened.”
Reuben did not know what the atomic explosion was being called. Was it a Holocaust, a Slaughter, a, a Whatever? She realized she didn’t know how to refer to the atomic devastation and its aftermath.
“I was there when everything happened in Israel. And, obviously, I did escape. But there is so much more to it than that. Sarah, I’m in Maine. I looked at a map. I’m on the coast north of Portland by probably a few hours drive.
“Sarah, I know its asking a lot and I know I am the one who stopped calling you, but, Sarah, this is so important. Could you possibly drive up to where I am? I don’t have a car. I don’t really have a place to stay. Please come, Sarah, please. And Sarah, I’d like it if Abram could come, too. Here’s where I am. Its a small town called, of all things, Brooklin, near Blue Hill. Do you have any idea where it is?”
“I know where it is, Debbie. Abram and I attended a fundraiser at somebody’s vacation house there. It was somebody very important. Not the kind of somebody you’d expect to find in a little town like that in Maine, but you’d be surprised who vacations around here sometimes. I know where Brooklin is, Debbie, but why should I, why should Abram and I drive all the way there. It’s at least two hours. You know Debbie, I was hurt when you stopped calling. I’m certainly glad you survived, even that you are in Maine, but Debbie, that’s a long drive and we lead very busy lives, especially right now after everything that happened.”
She waited for some response from Reuben. Hearing nothing, she continued.
“And especially with what is going on in Boston right now. I’m in shock over that, Debbie. We’re very busy.”
“I understand, Sarah, and I apologize for losing touch with you,” Reuben’s voice was pleading. She’d thought and thought about who to contact after arriving in Brooklin. Besides her former sorority sister, she’d drawn a blank on people, Jews, she admitted, she could trust. She was desperate.
“Please Sarah. I don’t know what’s happening in Boston, or anywhere else for that matter. I’ve been out of contact for the last few months, quite literally at sea. I’m sure whatever happened in Boston is interesting, but Sarah, believe me, it is IMPORTANT” Reuben spoke the word clearly in capitals “IMPORTANT that I see you and Abram.”
Sarah’s reaction surprised Reuben. The voice on the phone increased in volume and emotion.
“How can you call what they are doing in Boston just ‘interesting,’ Debbie? Its terrifying what they’re doing there. Don’t you realize what is happening? How can you say that? I’m shocked at you. You know, I think I’ll hang up. I’m very pleased that you are alive, but you obviously have different priorities than Abram and I do. Good bye, Debbie.”
“Wait, Sarah, wait. Please don’t hang up. Sarah, tell me, what happened in Boston? I’ve been away. OK, Sarah, I’ve been on a boat, a sailboat, for almost two months. Its how I got away from Israel. I sailed here on a sailboat and we landed, illegally, I might add if that might attract you. But that is why I don’t know what’s happening in Boston that is so important. Why don’t you tell me what is happening in Boston.”
The phone remained silent for ten seconds, then Sarah responded cautiously.
“OK, Debbie, obviously I don’t know what you’ve been up to and if you survived what happened, happened Over There then you’ve been through much more than I have ever been.
“OK, here’s what’s happening in Boston.” She spoke louder now, louder, voice cracking with emotion at the enormity of her words. “They are rounding up Jews, arresting Jews, thousands of them, in Boston. That’s what’s happening in Boston. It’s starting here, in this country. They are rounding up Jews. Does that sound familiar? Does that ring any historical bells for you? That is more than quote interesting endquote, Debbie, don’t you agree?
“And Abram and I are among a group of people, a group of Jews, Debbie, who this time are not going to stand by and wait for them to round us up, too. That is why Abram and I can’t hop into the car and take a drive to visit with old college friends on their sailboat, Debbie. So what do you think about that news about your sorority sister, Debbie?”
“That, Sarah, is the best news I’ve heard in months.”
There was silence again on the other end of the call, the Portland end. Reuben realized she’d made a mistake. She waited to hear a dial tone as Sarah slammed the phone down. She spoke quickly.
“No, no, no, not wonderful news about arresting Jews in Boston. Oh, that’s horrible, terrible. Why are they arresting Jews, anyway? No, what is good news, good news for me is what you and Abram are doing. I need to get together with people just like you. I had a feeling that you were the first person I should call. Sarah, listen to me carefully. I don’t want to say too much, especially over the telephone.
“Sarah, it is more important that you and Abram meet with me and, and another person here than you can possibly imagine. You say you want to do something, Sarah. Meet with me. We’ll be able to do something together, believe me. Please Sarah, trust me on this.”
The telephone was quiet.
“Hold on, Debbie, let me speak with Abram. Can I call you back?”
“No, I’m at a pay phone outside the post office. I don’t know if you can call in. I’ll wait.”
“OK, wait.” Reuben heard Sarah shouting, away from the phone. “Abram, its Debbie Reuben, remember Debbie? She wants to get together, today, now.”
The voice turned into mumbles. She’s covered the mouthpiece with her hand, Reuben thought. She waited, standing in the beginning of a light drizzle, shivering slightly, partly from the rain, partly from something else.
“Debbie, OK. We’re coming. Debbie, I can trust you on this, right? You aren’t calling just because you’re lonely or something, right? You’re not trying to get attention or something, right Deb? This isn’t all about getting attention, is it?”
The exuberant relief in Debra Reuben’s voice shocked Sarah. “Oh thank you so much, Sarah. I’m so thankful, you can’t imagine. You won’t regret this, Sarah. I’m not lonely. Well, I am lonely, a bit. Wait until you meet the only company I’ve had for two months. But that’s not why you have to come up here. You’ll see.
“But Sarah, one thing you are right about. I think we will be getting some attention soon. I think we’ll be getting lots of attention.”