The Distance Between Us (12 page)

Caddie touches her own chin involuntarily, and is surprised to see blood color her fingers.

Their bus, Caddie realizes, sits like a giant bull’s-eye on the paved road. “Go, go, go,” she wants to shout, as Sven shouted to their driver that day.

She doesn’t, though. Her words would be useless. Running for cover may be wiser, but these men are swollen and blinded by anger. Their guns are their favored wisdom. Three push out the front door, firing shots. Two others bolt through the rear emergency exit. One woman wraps another’s forearm in a flowered headscarf. Blood already seeps through the makeshift bandage. An older man shouts and waves his arms, ordering Caddie and the other women and the children to the floor. She ignores him and rises. The woman who had offered Caddie crackers grabs her arm, trying to pull her down. She jerks away and jumps from the rear of the bus.

The blaze started by the firebomb is burning down, its apricot flames knee-high. Beyond it is the dark of night.

If the attackers had other Molotov cocktails, they would have used them already. Right?

Unless they are hunched down in the hills, selecting their targets. Because now there is more at which to aim: the bus, the men outside, and her.

Can they spot her clearly from the hills, or does she dissolve into the blacktop? She touches her cheekbone, defining
her own outline in the dark. If they
can
see her, they will think she’s a settler. An enemy. She has lost even the pretense of immunity.

Another round of shooting echoes like a flurry of applause. But it’s not as loud as the commotion within her. She has to concentrate to hear. She makes out the sound of footsteps hurtling down the road. Jogging forward, she crouches. Stumbles over a rock, barely catches herself. Scans the hills and sees the silhouette of irregular shapes—ancient boulders or angry men? Too dark to tell.

Her freebies have run out. Of that, she’s certain.

Her stomach tightens. If it
is
the time, will she realize she’s been hit? Another surge of adrenalin, maybe sixty seconds’ worth, before shock turns to pain? Or a midstride of running and then nothing? She hopes not
that
—she’d rather know.

She flashes on an image of a woman she once interviewed, the widow of the soldier who told his commander by walkietalkie—his last words—“I’ve been killed.”

Her breath comes in short gasps.

She puts a hand to her hair. Her scarf has fallen off, probably back on the bus. Her backpack is there also, under her seat. And her press card, damnit. She turns to look at the bus, its brake lights an eerie yellow. She’s out here alone with nothing more than a narrow notepad and two black pens in her waist pouch. But turning back seems as dangerous as going forward. And with less chance of nabbing the story.

She ducks and thinks of an animal scurrying along the road. Her heart presses against her rib cage; her cheeks are
clammy. The air is heavy, as though rain waits. Staring into the dark, she remembers:
the face of that Beirut driver. His eyes, specifically. His veiled squint.
The thought propels her forward.

She’s upon them so fast she nearly runs into them. A huddle of men, hidden by the shadow of the hills. They swing on her sharply, guns pointed. One fires a shot to her right. She cringes involuntarily. Another jabs her in the side with his rifle and utters something guttural she can’t understand. She recognizes it as Hebrew, not Arabic.

“Hold it,” she says quickly. “I’m the reporter. The one on the bus with you.”

From a brew of muttering, Moshe’s impatient voice emerges. “I know her. She’s with me.” Moshe takes her arm roughly, pulls her back toward the bus. “Though why you would come out here . . .”

“My job,” she says.

“Not the place for a woman,” he says. “Not the time for an interview.”

In a few more steps, they are back. “They got away,” Moshe announces to his fellow passengers as they climb on the bus. “They scattered like rabbits.” And then the bus is awash in disappointment and disgust—just as, twenty minutes ago, it was bathed in a murmured calm. A quick inventory confirms that although some stitches may be necessary, no one is badly hurt. That does not relieve the tension. Talk boils as booted men kick glass shards into a corner.

“How many were there?”

“Which village, do you think?”

“No more! Time to put an end to this.”

Caddie sits directly behind Moshe and jots in her notepad. She tries to be inconspicuous, though she probably doesn’t need to, so caught up are the passengers in their shared fury as they jostle back to their seats. They’ve forgotten her.

After several minutes of talk unrelieved by the sound of an engine starting up, someone points out that their driver is no longer among them. Apparently more afraid of the enraged settlers than of losing his job, he has fled into the night. Men begin to guffaw; one strides to the front to drive the bus home. And now, although the mother has not resumed her humming, the vehicle is filling with a sense of satisfaction: their womenfolk and children have been attacked this evening, but they’ve managed to scare at least one Arab in return.

When the bus begins to move, Moshe leans back and speaks with more candor than Caddie would expect. “Slimy bastards,” he says, slapping his knee. “Next time they’ll kill one of us.
Again
, they’ll kill one of us. We’ve got to get them first.” In her presence Moshe is usually smooth and calm, full of pious concern for the world. But now he’s forgotten she’s a reporter—or no longer cares.

A man twists in his seat to answer Moshe. His forehead is as white and shiny as a boiled egg. “The devil’s insects stir things whenever they can,” he says, wiggling his thick fingers. “We’ll squash them.”

Noticing Caddie watching, he scowls and, with deliberation, turns away.

. . .

A
T HIS SETTLEMENT
, Moshe gets off the bus first, waits for Caddie and hands her a damp handkerchief. “Wipe the blood off your chin,” he says.

She takes it. “Thanks.”

He waves dismissively. “Don’t want to needlessly frighten my children.”

They pass together through the yellow barrier gate that controls entrance into the enclave. Before them spills a neighborhood of straight streets, orderly homes. An armed guard sitting on a watchtower waves down at them.
“Shalom,”
he calls to Moshe.

“So?” Caddie asks as she jams the stained handkerchief into her pocket. “Tonight?”

“What?”

“You’re going to respond?”

He widens his eyes for her benefit. “What do you mean?” “C’mon, Moshe. Teach them a lesson, send a message, however you want to phrase it. Because if you are, I’d like to come.”

“We’re good men trying to protect our families.”

His voice has changed since he got off the bus. This is the modulated Moshe that she must get beyond, the wallpaper she needs to peel off. “I was with you tonight,” she says. “I survived it, too.” She stops then, halted by a sudden clarity about what she needs to write. “Revenge is a physical craving, like
for food or sleep,” she says. “Your mind may say you don’t need it, you don’t want it. But your body insists you do.”

He stares with candid curiosity. It surprises her, too, frankly, this intensity that unfolds as she speaks.

“Let’s discuss it later.” Moshe’s tone is removed now. “I don’t want to worry my family.” Then, with a cautious sideways look, he turns and strides away.

She’s glad to follow a few steps behind, caught up as she is in this idea. A rush of excitement moves to her chest, her cheeks.

She’s been a fine reporter, sure. She can smell a lie, nail the lead in a second, find a fresh take on yet another tragedy. She’s an attentive listener and can get anyone to spill his stuff during an interview. But those barriers that she’s put up, necessary barriers, may have sometimes, she sees now, gotten in the way of the story.

Maybe this time she can write something that will compensate for the other half-stories. A piece that will show intimately how violence shreds sleep and appetite and memory, disfiguring those it leaves behind. A story that will get close enough to give vengeance a human face. Maybe that’s what she is supposed to do with all this anger and frustration and loss.

The door to Moshe’s home is slightly ajar. The noise of children floods out. Moshe reaches out to touch and kiss the
mezuzah. “Shalom,”
he calls as they step inside. They enter a living room illuminated by a single hooded lamp. One worn couch, two overstuffed chairs. A child’s Torah in a corner, along with a rusted Tonka truck and a homemade doll with brown yarn hair. A small face peeks around the corner, stares
at Caddie, then disappears. “Ah, I smell dinner,” Moshe says in such a sitcom voice that Caddie wants to groan aloud. After a moment, a woman comes in wearing a chocolate-colored skirt that reaches her ankles. A vibrant, multicolored silk scarf covers most of her auburn hair, making her seem a reluctant frontierswoman. Moshe looks past her as he says, “My wife.”

Caddie remembers Moshe telling her that this wife was born in the States, Massachusetts, she thinks. “Hi. I’m Caddie. And you’re . . .?”

“Sarah,” says Moshe, as though she can’t be trusted to pronounce her own name. Caddie would stomp on the foot of such a husband, but Sarah doesn’t react. “I’m going to get cleaned up,” Moshe says, and leaves them alone.

“Thanks so much for having me for the night,” Caddie says.

“The night?” says Sarah. “Of course.” Her scarf is tied under her hair in a large knot like an unnatural flower blooming at the back of her neck. Three children hover. A long minute inches by.“We’ll eat soon,” Sarah says. “Would you like some water? Or juice?” Her voice is soft but hoarse, like a heavy smoker’s.

“Water would be fine.”

Sarah motions Caddie into the dining room, where the table is set, then excuses herself. A few moments later one of the older boys, maybe twelve, with the onset of acne and a refusal to meet her eyes, brings Caddie a glass of water. She takes a sip. Lukewarm, it slides down her throat reluctantly. He silently stands before her, arms hanging limply. “So,” she says, “how long have you lived here?”

“Year.” He’s looking at her right ear. “About.”

“And before that?”

“Kiryat Arba,” he names another settlement.

“Are there many children in this neighborhood? Do you go to
yeshiva
here?”

Two questions at once have been too much. The boy looks at his feet while nodding quickly, a gesture that could mean anything, then slips out of the room.

Within minutes, the family begins gathering at the table. No one introduces her. Only the little ones even glance at her directly. “Sit, sit.” Moshe speaks to her in a large voice, gesturing to an empty chair.

Caddie counts the children—seven—as they follow Moshe’s lead in intoning a blessing.
“Baruch ata Adonai Elohainu . . .”
Their faces remind her of marshmallows: pale and spongy. She takes a few bites from her plate, then looks around in vain for salt or pepper. The food, by appearance, texture and flavor, is tasteless and unrecognizable. But no one asks her if she needs anything. She pretends to eat. She’s not hungry anyway. She wonders if, despite all these children, sex between Moshe and Sarah is as bland as the food; then she banishes the thought as Moshe asks each child in turn what he or she has learned that day and they rise to their feet to tell him. The younger ones recite phrases from the Torah; the older ones reflect on their meanings. Only the baby is exempt. Moshe strokes his wispy beard and nods as each one speaks. His smile is subdued, but his eyes speak of pride. This ritual, Caddie suspects, is his primary contribution to child-rearing. Sarah
looks up from her plate only to spoon food into the baby’s mouth.

After dinner, Moshe nods at his wife as he leaves the dining room. Caddie jumps to follow him, but he steps into a room and closes the door firmly behind him. The bathroom, perhaps? She returns to the dining table and starts to help clear it until the oldest boy, looking like a bird ready to give flight, waves his arms and mumbles something about
kashrut
. Of course. As with every religion, there are laws, and in this case they concern separation of dairy and meat products. Special flatware and dishes, special sinks and special sponges, dish towels and drain racks. There can be no merging. If a mistake occurs, whole sets of dishes may have to be tossed. They don’t want to bother explaining and then checking to make sure she does it right.

She returns to the living room. There are no books or magazines, so she sits, then rises to look out the window. She opens a hall closet, looking idly for Moshe’s rifle. He has one stashed somewhere, she’s sure. At least one. But this closet holds only coats.

She takes a few steps down the hallway. “Moshe?” No one answers. In the kitchen, Sarah and her children are still washing dishes. Caddie tentatively opens the door that Moshe disappeared behind. It leads to a small mudroom and, beyond it, the street. Moshe is gone; he’s given her the slip.

She eases out the door. The settlement, surrounded by barbed wire, is stripped down like a version of a toy town with blacktop streets, a gas station, a playground. The identical
five dozen red-roofed houses look spacious by Jerusalem standards. No obvious clues as to where Moshe might be.

Outside one home, a light is on, and a woman kneels over a planted pot by her front door.
“Shalom,”
Caddie calls as she approaches. The fact that she’s passed the guard and is inside indicates she is an invited guest, and that should give her some measure of acceptance. She hopes it’s enough.

“Shalom.”
The woman straightens, but she’s hesitant, searching Caddie’s face.

“I’m Catherine Blair.” Caddie holds out a hand. “I’m visiting Moshe Bar Lev. He’s gone to a meeting and I’m supposed to be there, too, but,” she shakes her head, touches one hand to her forehead and smiles, “I’ve forgotten the house number.” She waits. The woman says nothing, glancing down at a handful of herbs she holds in her hand. “Do you know, perhaps?” Caddie asks at last.