49 - Brooklin, Maine
“Chaim, we need to meet, right away,” Abram Goldhersh’s voice sounded excited on the telephone. “I’m sending somebody to pick you up. His name is Gimel, Mr. Gimel. Like the third letter in the Hebrew alphabet. Remember that. He won’t introduce himself. You ask him his name. He’ll say Gimel. If he doesn’t, don’t get in the car with him.
“I have to run. Goodbye.”
Levi told Debra Reuben about the telephone call.
“Where are you going,” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Levi answered.
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who will you be with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why does he need to see you, at least?”
“Debra, I just don’t know. I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you, please, enough with the questions.”
“If you don’t know anything, why are you going away? I don’t understand. It could be dangerous for you out there.” Levi sensed the concern in her voice. He answered carefully.
“First, it isn’t dangerous for me. I’m nobody out there. Nobody has the slightest idea who I am or what I am or why I’m here. It’s perfectly safe for me to leave this house.
“Second, why am I going? Because I’m bored out of my head sitting around here all day watching television and waiting for something to happen. At least other people are doing things, even if they are childish things like peaceful marches that will be forgotten in a week.
“Debra, with all that’s happening, what are we doing? Bubkis, that’s what.”
She smiled at the Israeli’s use of the Yiddish word for “nothing.” Secular Israelis avoided using Yiddish to the same extent African-Americans avoided Amos and Andy terms such as “massuh.” Reuben enjoyed dropping the occasional Yiddish into her speech. It reminded her of her grandmother.
Levi must be softening up, she thought.
“OK,” she said to him. “Maybe I’m being paranoid. But be careful will you. Anyway, I’ve been thinking of going to Washington with Sarah.” A broad smile spread across her face. “It’s going to make history. A million American Jews in one place. What a trip it would be to be there and participate.”
Levi looked at her, stunned. He crossed his arms into an X in front of his chest.
“Forget that,” Levi said sternly. “Look, I’m going out in secret, quietly, making no fuss. Nobody in this country has ever heard of me. You’re different. Don’t forget who you are. You were on TV, here and there. You were in the government. You have a face people don’t forget. You’re beautiful.”
She shook her head from side to side, but she smiled. Chaim thinks I’m beautiful, she thought.
Levi continued, not realizing the effect his statement had on Reuben.
“You were all over the TV. Somebody will recognize you. Somebody will point at you and say, hey isn’t that the woman from TV, the one who moved to Israel, the one who joined the government there. Wonder what she’s doing here, now.
“What will you do when they point you out, Debra?” Reuben frowned.
“Actually, Sarah is on the steering committee for the march. She’s going to be speaking. She asked me to think about speaking. I’m a representative, maybe the only representative, of the government of Israel, you know.” Reuben pictured herself addressing a crowd of a million Jews gathered in Washington. She dispelled a fleeting comparison to Martin Luther King.
Levi’s shocked response ended her reverie.
“You’ll be in handcuffs before you say three words,” he said sternly. “If they decide to hold the government of Israel responsible for what happened in Damascus, who do you think they’ll pick?”
Her face paled. “Nobody knows I did that,” she whispered. “Nobody but you, and me.” She stepped to Levi, throwing her arms around him, clutching him tightly, dropping her head to his shoulder. He held her silently for several minutes, softly rubbing her hair, holding her tightly against his chest. Her breathing deepened, then slowed, as she absorbed his strength, flowing through their clothing from his body to hers. Strange, she thought, how this man has enough strength for the two of us. Between his strength and the comfort of alcohol, she’d survived one day after the next in their oceanside hideaway. Levi gently pushed her away at arms length.
“Debra, they don’t have to know that they picked the right person. They’ll take whoever they can get. Do you think you can stand up, identify yourself and then walk away, free? That won’t happen.”
“They won’t know it was me,” she whispered. “And we had the right to defend ourselves. We didn’t drop the first bomb. People will understand. We were defending our country. Who could hold Israel responsible for that?”
“Shall we start a list,” Levi said. “Maybe a billion or so Muslims who believe that taking your head off buys them a ticket to Paradise. Maybe the United Nations. Or how about the World Court? Feel like standing trial in Brussels for murdering a hundred thousand people in Damascus? Or maybe even your own United States. Remember what you told me about five-dollar-a-gallon gasoline? Think turning you over for trial in Syria might buy a few million barrels of oil?” He placed one hand on each of her shoulders, his arms out straight. Looking her full in the face, he continued.
“The name of the game for you is invisible. Low profile is too high. Your days of giving speeches are over. You made that decision months ago. What was the name of that place you told me about? Dimona?”
Reuben was stunned by this speech. She’d never truly comprehended the global implications of her role in the Damascus bombing. Instead, she’d considered it her personal demon, the tormentor who would never let her forget what she had done. She’d been so involved in punishing herself that she had not gotten around to considering that other people, millions of them, might want to join in.
She broke into tears, quietly at first but louder and louder until she lost all control and her body shook as she struggled for breath.
Levi put both arms around her, cradling the crying woman to his chest. He put his lips near her ear and spoke softly, gently.
“The best hope we have is finding somebody who can give us completely new identities, and maybe new faces to go with them,” Levi said. “So, no Washington? No speeches? You’ll watch it on TV, OK?
“And I’ll be back soon. I promise.”
A car pulled into the driveway, a Honda Accord sedan. A man in his early twenties was behind the wheel. A yarmulke sat on his head. He remained in the car as Levi walked up to the driver’s door. The window rolled down.
“And your name is ...” Levi asked.
“Gimel,” the man answered. “Shalom. Get in the car.”
Debra Reuben let the curtain fall back over the kitchen window as she watched the car drive away. Be careful Chaim, she thought. Dear Chaim. She poured the Bacardi over three ice cubes in a tall glass. She’d stopped adding Coke.