The Galilean Secret: A Novel (41 page)

Beit Jala, Israel

Friday, April 19

AS THE THREE MEN BACKED KARIM INTO A SECLUDED CORNER OF BETHEL PRISON, AN UNBIDDEN THOUGHT ENTERED HIS MIND:
I HAVE NOTHING TO LIVE FOR
.
WHY NOT LET THEM KILL ME?
The stench of urine and the prison’s gloom made the thought toxic enough to choke on. The bars that ringed the indoor recreation area were behind him. He had seen the attack dogs and iron gates outside. There was no escaping.

“You look even uglier in jail than you did on TV,” the rawboned, darkly bearded Rivca said.

Three days earlier, when Karim entered the prison, he had met Rivca and his friends Marwan and Yasser. “How would you know?” Karim asked.

Rivca narrowed his eyes. “Because I saw your news conference before I got arrested.”

The scowls on the men’s faces blew terror through Karim. Even with their wrists handcuffed and their ankles in chains, these Palestinians could injure or kill him. Such was life in an Israeli prison, where the guards ignored the violence, and where smuggled cell phones and information from family visitors kept the prisoners abreast of—even involved in—events outside. Through this secret network Karim had learned of Rachel’s death, and it left him in no condition to fight.

Or to do anything else.

He spoke the only words that came to mind. “What you heard on TV—that wasn’t the whole story.”

“Which story?” Yasser said, jutting out his pointed nose and thick chest. “Are you speaking of you becoming a Christian, or of you marching with Jews?” Yasser cupped his hands and swung with a chopping motion.

Karim blocked the blow with an arm. Thrown off balance, he reeled backward and Marwan, scar-faced and swarthy, kicked him. Karim fell and considered staying down, letting them beat him.

Kill him.

He despised the thought, but after the horrendous ending of the march—and after losing Rachel—he felt tempted.

“Leave him alone!” The voice spoke with such authority that the three attackers froze. Karim glanced up at a broad-shouldered man with wide-set eyes. “He’s Sadiq Musalaha’s son,” the man said. “If you ever want out of here, you’ll leave him alone.” The man stepped in front of the attackers. “His father is negotiating a prisoner exchange with the Israelis.”

Yasser spit on the floor. “They’ll never do it. The Israelis raise our hopes and then dash them every time.”

Karim got up as the broad-shouldered man said, “This situation is different. The Israelis have never captured the son of the PPA’s leader. They’re using him as a bargaining chip to pressure Musalaha to release their IDF soldier.” The man pushed the attackers away. “From what we know of Sadiq Musalaha, he’ll bargain for more than his son’s release. He won’t give up an IDF soldier until the Israelis free us too.”

Rivca backed away. “I still don’t like this man sympathizing with Christians and Jews, and I bet his father doesn’t either.”

Karim gave Rivca a disapproving stare. “That attitude is the reason we’re in here. Even if we’re freed, our spirits will be in prison until we see all people as equals.”

Rivca smirked and walked away with his friends. Karim leaned back against the bars, rubbing his forehead. He had avoided the pain of a beating but couldn’t escape the greater anguish of grief. Tormented by the memory of Rachel lying motionless in front of the Wailing Wall, a tear gas cylinder in her chest, he raised a prayer of lament.
Yu Allah!
She was too young, too beautiful, too good to die—especially at her brother’s hand. Karim’s eyes blurred as a lump swelled in his throat.

She was gone.

Forever gone.

And he could do nothing to bring her back.

He shook his head and slapped the bars with a hand. The siren blared, signaling the end of the exercise session. As he started back to his cell, a guard approached. “Are you Karim Musalaha?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me. You have a visitor.”

Karim followed the muscular guard through a set of electronically controlled steel doors. The guard led him into a transfer corridor that had another set of identical doors at the far end. They clanked and squeaked open. The noises had already become familiar to Karim, making him feel strangely at home. He walked through. More bars and locked doors lay ahead. He understood why he was comfortable: Israel, the West Bank and Gaza were larger versions of this British-mandate-era prison. He had lived in such a place all his life. His mother and brother had died in such places. So had his wife-to-be and her father.

A burning sensation stung Karim’s eyes. He and Rachel had tried to find a path to freedom, and for a brief moment, through the Jesus letter, the path had become clear. But with Rachel’s death, darkness had closed in again, more ominous and forbidding than ever.

The guard ushered him down a windowless hallway. “The room at the end is usually reserved for interrogations,” he said. “But because you’re Musalaha’s son, you’re being allowed to use it.” The guard opened the door and Karim walked into a drab room that contained only a gunmetal gray desk and three wooden chairs. In one of the chairs sat Brother Gregory, his chin cradled in his palm.

After the guard left and locked the door, Brother Gregory stood and embraced Karim. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“And I about you.” Karim patted the monk’s back and studied the dark circles under his eyes. “If only Rachel were with us . . .”

“She is.”

“What do you mean?”

“A miracle of sorts has happened.” Brother Gregory’s voice took on new urgency. “The footage of Rachel being shot was broadcast on TV and all over the Internet. It became an international human interest story— how a sister and brother chose opposite paths after their father died in a suicide bombing. Hearts broke all over the world when people saw the brother, an IDF commander, fatally shoot his sister, a peace activist, with a tear gas canister. It also became known that the suicide bomber was Sadiq Musalaha’s son—your brother. As a result, there have been calls from both Israeli and Palestinian leaders for new peace initiatives, and the United States is seizing the opportunity to bring the sides together. Your father is talking to the Israelis about a prisoner swap.”

Karim reflected on these surprising developments, and another question arose in his mind. “What happened to the scroll?”

Brother Gregory’s expression turned sober. “It’s in the hands of the Government Antiquities Agency. I learned a painful lesson from the trouble it caused.”

“About security, you mean?”

“No, about so-called ‘holy’ things—artifacts, sacred books and sites, even this land.” Brother Gregory shook his head and crossed his arms on his chest. “When material things are called ‘holy,’ people become obsessed with them. These things seduce us away from the spiritual essence of our religions, and once we begin to fight over such things, the bloodshed never ends.”

“And what about Ezra?”

Brother Gregory ran a hand through his flowing white hair, a glimmer of wonder in his eyes. “I don’t understand it. He was such a hardliner; I thought he would always remain that way, but I’m astonished by how he has changed.” Brother Gregory hesitated, his voice growing soft. “Ezra told me that he doesn’t blame you for Rachel’s death, only himself. He resigned his commission in the army. Now he wants to make amends with you.” The monk took hold of Karim’s arm. “I brought him here. He’s waiting outside . . . if you’re willing to see him.”

The room became stuffy, its walls closing in on Karim. He began to pace, his heart throbbing in his ears. How could he ever speak with Ezra again, let alone forgive him?

“I’ll understand if you refuse to see him,” Brother Gregory said. “I only hope you’ll remember the lessons of the Jesus letter and of Judith of Jerusalem’s diary.” Brother Gregory’s face was flushed. “Miracles happen every day. Don’t you think you deserve one? Don’t you think Rachel deserves one too?”

Karim felt dizzy, his legs weak. “I don’t want to see Ezra.” He threw his hands forward as if tossing an object on the ground. “I can’t do it.”

Brother Gregory grew very still. “This is the hardest decision of your life. But while you ponder it, let me tell you about a dream I had last night. I was at the ceremony celebrating the founding of the new nation of Palestine. The leaders of every Arab country were there, along with the president of the United States, the prime minister and the president of Israel and many other dignitaries and heads of state. Everyone was standing in Jerusalem and nothing was happening. They looked bored and perplexed, not knowing what to do. Then Rachel entered the city from the Mount of Olives, through the Golden Gate, and everyone stood and applauded. They hugged one another and the bands played and the ceremony began. I think the dream is telling us that we need Rachel and her message of healing faith in order to create a new future. Perhaps she will accomplish even more in death than she did in life, and her work of reconciliation must begin with you and her brother.”

Karim felt the blood rush to his cheeks. His hands shook. Beads of sweat formed above his upper lip. He closed his eyes, and then with a sigh he opened them. “All right,” he said. “I will see Ezra.”

Brother Gregory went to the door and knocked. When the guard answered, the monk asked him to show Ezra in. A moment later Karim saw his bitter enemy walk through the door. His army uniform gone, Ezra wore only a white shirt and black slacks. His eyes red and lips quivering, his expression exuded unbearable sadness.

Karim stood beside the desk and said nothing. Ezra approached. A host of images played across Karim’s mind. He wondered if Ezra saw them too: bombed-out buildings and bloodstained streets, razor-wire fences and plumes of tear gas smoke, rock-throwing youths and soldiers on the march. Karim sensed that he, Ezra and Brother Gregory were not the only ones in the room. The memories and sorrows of Jews, Christians and Muslims through the ages were there with them—the tear-streaked faces of mothers wailing for their lost sons, the wrenching chants of crowds carrying coffins, the shrill cries of orphans searching for parents who would never return.

Brother Gregory broke the silence as he grasped both of their hands. “You are the two bravest men I have ever known.”

The two stared at each other in silence. Finally Ezra said, “I have come to express my deepest sorrow over my hateful actions and over Rachel’s death.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “Will you please forgive me?”

Before Karim could respond, a siren went off. He glanced around in confusion as did Ezra and Brother Gregory. The door opened and the guard came in. “We have just received word that the prisoner exchange has gone through. The Palestinians incarcerated here must leave immediately.” The guard held the door open. “Follow me.”

The three men walked down the hall and into the transfer corridor, where they joined several hundred Palestinians flowing through the open front gate. Blinking against the midday sun, Karim beheld a chaotic scene. Television crews were broadcasting live as the families and friends of released prisoners swarmed around. Karim heard someone in the crowd call his name. He looked and saw Abdul Fattah waving to him. “Come on, Karim. Your father wants you to join him at the peace talks.”

Ezra held up a hand. “Give us a minute.” He took Karim aside, reached into his pocket and withdrew a ring. Holding it out to Karim, he said, “Before Rachel died, she gave me this ring to return to you. She said she will always love you, and that she will wait for you in the next life. Please receive this ring as a sign of my deepest remorse and a plea for your forgiveness.”

Karim stared at the ring. He would take it, of course, but he didn’t know if he could or even wanted to forgive Ezra. Would it betray Rachel to forgive the brother who had killed her? Or would forgiving him be the deepest act of loyalty to her?

Karim searched Ezra’s eyes and saw longing there, the passionate longing that he had seen in the eyes of Rajiya, the little girl whose image was painted on the separation wall at A-Ram, clutching enough balloons to carry her over.

Karim took the ring and studied its inscription: “True Islam is peace.” That was the message his beloved mother had left him. It was also the message that Rachel had taught him to live. Now he would inscribe two more words inside the ring—“True Islam is peace and forgiveness.”

Ezra reached for him, tempting Karim to turn away, but he saw the longing again and opened his arms. Then Ezra did what Karim had never expected an Israeli to do in a Palestinian’s company, let alone in his embrace.

He wept.

From
The Day the World Changed

Copyright © 2063

By Karim Musalaha