Acts of Faith (23 page)

It was late evening when they reached Tel Aviv’s Ben-Gurion Airport, where Israeli Immigration officers questioned them to be certain their motives in visiting Israel were sacred and not subversive.

One of the seminarians lost his temper.

“You’re only doing this to us because we’re German,

An officer—a dark-haired woman in her late twenties—replied sweetly,
“Ja.”

Timothy and Christoph were the very last to be interrogated. Paradoxically, the fact that the blond-haired American seminarian spoke Hebrew made him even more suspect than any of the Germans. But once the senior Duty Officer had elicited from Timothy that he had begun his career as a
“Shabbes goy”
and could quote verbatim from the Old Testament, he broke into an effusive welcome, and as a token of friendship, offered him half his bar of Elite chocolate.

“Baruch ha-ba,”
he remarked. “Blessed be your arrival.”

Then the two young men grabbed their suitcases and started out into the heavy August night toward the bus, where the rest of the group was waiting with growing impatience.

Their energetic Israeli driver whisked them to Jerusalem at what seemed the same speed as the plane they had flown. As they passed the Judaean hills and were approaching the city itself, Timothy—unlike the others—was not gazing out the window.

Instead, with the help of a small flashlight, he was studying a map of the Holy City he had picked up while waiting in line at the airport, trying to memorize the route between Terra Sancta College, the Franciscan hostel where they would be lodging, and the YMCA on King David Street.

Yet, when the bus actually turned the final corner and he saw “Welcome to Jerusalem” illuminated in flowers on a bed of grass, his soul stirred. Looking out at the city of a stone so white it could even be seen in darkness, he whispered to himself, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: They shall prosper that love thee.”

As he carried his bag into his tiny room, Tim overheard through the wall the irritated voices of George and Patrick.

“This may be the only chance I get to see the Holy Land, and if you think I’m going to waste it with a guide who can’t speak a word of English, you’re crazy.”

“I agree, Cavanagh. But what can we do about it?”

“Why don’t we just tell Father Bauer the truth?” George suggested. “We’re grown men. I’ve got four guidebooks in English. Maybe he’ll give us permission to travel on our own.”

“Good idea,” Grady replied. “Let’s just pray he allows us to go.”

Timothy said an inward amen.

To his great relief, Tim’s classmates did not invite him along when they petitioned the German leader next
morning. From their smiling faces as they sat down to breakfast, he could see that the request had been granted.

Now it was his turn.

In Tim’s case, however, Father Bauer was more reluctant.

“But there are so many inscriptions in Greek and Hebrew you could help us translate,” he protested in a German Tim could comprehend with great difficulty.

“That’s just it,” Tim pleaded in Latin. “I’d really like to spend some extra time in the places where Our Lord preached—especially in Capernaum.”

“How could I deny such an admirable request,” Father Bauer conceded. “Very well.
Placet.
Anyway, you have our itinerary, so you can rejoin us at any time you wish. Can I count on you to be back here by six
P.M.
precisely on fifteenth September?”

“Absolutely,” Tim replied.

“Then off you go,” Father Bauer smiled. “Join your American friends, and breathe deeply of the Holy Land.”

Tim could barely constrain his joy as he turned to leave, rationalizing to himself that he had not actually lied to Father Bauer.

The German had not specified
which
American friends.

His first stop was the mail desk at the YMCA, where he inquired diffidently, “How long do you keep letters here if they’re not picked up?”

“Forever,” the clerk replied. “My boss is crazy. We’ve still got stuff from the fifties that’s turned completely yellow.”

Feeling his spine grow cold, Timothy asked, “Is there anything for Timothy Hogan?”

“I’ll see,” the clerk replied, picking up a brown carton labeled
H
and beginning to search. Finally, he looked up and said, “Sorry, nothing for Hogan.”

Tim could barely breathe. He had only one slender hope. “Could I ask—is there anything for ‘Deborah Luria’?”

The clerk riffled through the pile of
L
’s and replied, “Sorry. Nothing under that name either.”

“Does that mean she might have picked up the letter?” Timothy asked with growing excitement.

Bemused by his anxiety, the young man smiled.

“That’s a pretty logical conclusion to make.”

Tim dashed out of the building, down the wide front steps, along the cypress-lined path toward the Central Bus Station.

He soared on wings of hope.

Even before he had left Italy, Timothy had done sufficient research to know not only where Deborah’s kibbutz was located, but what number bus would get him there from Jerusalem.

During the last tension-filled days in Rome, he had hoarded his pocket money to have more to spend on the journey.

Now his sacrifice was rewarded. For at eleven-forty that morning, he boarded a bus for Tiberias—one that would drop him within walking distance of kibbutz Kfar Ha-Sharon.

As they sped along, the driver’s voice on the loudspeaker called their attention to scenes of the most dramatic events of the Bible.

Under ordinary circumstances, Timothy would have stared awestruck as the driver remarked: “On your right you can see ancient Bethany, the home of the sisters Mary and Martha, where Jesus raised their brother Lazarus from the dead.” Instead, he spent most of the time gazing out the window with unfocused eyes. He was in a kind of hypnotic state, yet was not so numb that he could not feel the ache of fear. How would Deborah react? After all, she had read his letter and not left an answer.

Somewhere near Afula, Tim saw a road sign indicating
Nazareth
to the left.

How could he not feel moved?

Could his feelings for Deborah be even stronger than his love for Christ?

“
D
eborah … Deborah!”

She was busy working in the fields when one of the ten-year-old boys came running toward her, shouting.

“Be careful, Motti,” she warned. “We’re not growing mashed potatoes here.”

She wiped her brow with a handkerchief already grimy from a morning’s sweat.

“Deborah,” the boy cried once again, “Boaz wants to see you.”

She straightened up and answered, “We break for lunch in half an hour. Can’t it wait?”

“He told me ‘right away.’ ”

Deborah sighed, stabbed her fork into a mound of earth, and began trudging toward the kibbutz headquarters.

Halfway up the hill, a thought struck her. Could someone in her family be sick—or worse? She grew apprehensive. Boaz would not call her from the field for something trivial. It had to be bad news.

Three elderly kibbutzniks were busy in the anteroom. There was a pair of gray-haired women tapping away at large typewriters, and eighty-two-year-old Jonah Friedman at the center desk manning the switchboard.

“Jonah,” Deborah asked in frightened tones, “what’s the big emergency?”

The old man shrugged. “What do I know? I’m just a receptionist. Shall I tell Boaz you’re here—or do you want to freshen up?”

“Why would I need to ‘freshen up’?” she asked impatiently.

“Well,” he answered with an apologetic smile, “you’re a little
shmutzik
here and there.…”

“I’ve been picking potatoes—how else do you expect me to look?”

“All right already. Just go the way you are.”

She knocked softly.

“It’s okay, Deborah,” Boaz said solemnly. “Take a deep breath and come right in.”

A breath? She was about to faint. Slowly she opened the door.

Standing before her, looking incongruous in his ill-fitting sports clothes and lobster-red from the Israeli sun, was a man whose face she had carried in her thoughts for three long years. Someone she had never dreamed she would see again.

At first, she was totally paralyzed.

Timothy, no less confused, could manage only, “Hello, Deborah. It’s good to see you.”

The room was silent except for the steady hum of Boaz’s air conditioner.

At last Tim spoke. “You look wonderful,” he said softly. “I mean, I’ve never seen you with a tan.…” His voice trailed off.

Suddenly, she was embarrassed.

Though long accustomed to the casual attire of the kibbutzniks, now standing in front of Tim in her shorts, she somehow felt undressed.

Boaz tried to ease the strain.

“Listen, Deborah, I can see you two have things to talk about. Go to the kitchen and get some sandwiches. Have a picnic.” Then, adding with mock severity, “Only be back in the fields at four o’clock sharp.”

He rose and marched out of the office, leaving them too stunned to know how to behave.

They looked at each other. Neither moved.

Tim asked her hesitantly, “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” she smiled, rubbing her suntanned arms. “The air conditioner—”

“Me too,” he replied, already feeling more at ease. “Let’s go somewhere warmer.”

They put pita bread, cheese, and fruit in a wire mesh basket, and were about to leave, when the master of the kitchen called out, “Wait a minute.”

They stopped and turned. In his beefy hands, Shauli was holding out an opened bottle of red wine.

“Take this, children—” he offered in broken English. “It’s on the roof.”

They sat beside the lake, watching the little boats bob in the distance.

“So this is where St. Peter fished,” Tim murmured.

“And where Christ walked on the water,” Deborah added.

Tim’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’ve accepted Jesus.”

“No,” she smiled, “but He spent so much time in this area, He’s almost a member of the kibbutz. Have you seen Bethlehem?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, I drive now—maybe I can take you.”

“Oh,” he said, somewhat surprised, not at the nature of her suggestion, but that she could think of anything beyond the reality of this one distilled moment.

The present was difficult enough, the future too fraught with a thousand unanswerable questions. Indeed, all they could discuss with any equanimity was the past.

“How did you ever track me down?” she asked.

“My guide was Jeremiah 29:13—‘And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.’ ”

Deborah was moved. “Your Hebrew’s beautiful, Tim,” she said softly.

“Well,” he replied with a touch of embarrassment, “I’ve been really working on it. I guess I’ve learned a great deal since we saw each other last.”

So have I, thought Deborah to herself. And then said aloud, “No, seriously, how did you really find out where I was?”

“I would have started in the Sinai and searched right up to the Golan Heights—except by sheer coincidence I ran into Danny on the subway.”

“Oh.”

“I saw it as the hand of fate,” he insisted.

Deborah averted her eyes and nervously plucked at blades of grass. At last she spoke.

“I’ve really been through a lot since … that night.”

She told him about her servitude in Mea Shearim and her flight to freedom.

“You were very brave,” he murmured.

“My father didn’t exactly see it that way.”

“I’ll bet,” he acknowledged. “He’s a very strong-willed person.”

“So am I. I’m his daughter after all,” she said. “Besides, I’ve done a lot of growing up. I’m nearly twenty now.”

“Yes,” he responded, gazing at her face, “and very beautiful.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said shyly.

“I know. I was just changing the subject to something more important.”

“Don’t you want to know the rest of my story?” she asked uneasily.

“Some other time.” He moved to within an arm’s length of her, still not touching.

“I’d like to hear about how it was in the seminary,” she said.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he whispered. “Not this minute anyway.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Deborah,” he persisted, “I can read your thoughts. You’re feeling scared and guilty.”

She lowered her head, clenched her fists, and said, “Yes, you’re right—I am. But it’s natural to be scared. I just don’t know why I feel so guilty.”

He held out his hand and raised her face to look at his. “You’re afraid it’s wrong,” he murmured. “But it isn’t, Deborah. Believe me, there’s nothing wrong with the way we feel about each other.”

His hand was moving gently down to her shoulder.

“Tim, what’s going to happen to us?”

“Today? Tomorrow? Next week? I don’t know, Deborah, and I don’t care. I just know I’m with you now. I love you, and I won’t let you go.”

Their faces were inches apart. It was as if she had been holding on to the edge of a precipice for the three aching years they had been separated.

And then suddenly Deborah let go.

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

She remembered how it had been with Avi.

And now she knew the difference.

As they held each other tightly, Tim whispered, “Deborah, I can’t believe this is a sin.”

She nodded wordlessly as they embraced.

Both were nervous, yet neither was afraid. Though completely innocent, they intuitively knew the intricacies of the act of love.

It was yet another sign that what they were doing was meant to be.

And so, in a wooded corner near the Sea of Galilee, the future priest and the rabbi’s daughter consummated the passion that had begun one Sabbath eve so long ago.

Deborah referred to him simply as Tim. That night at dinner in the hall, she introduced her friends to her American visitor. Tactfully, they all refrained from asking what he did at home. Their only question was to them the most essential: “How long will you be staying?”

Tim looked at Deborah, hoping that her eyes would
tell him how to answer, but all he read in them was, That’s what
I’m
wondering too.