Wings of Refuge (6 page)

Abby’s stomach lurched. Agent Shur must have thought of some more questions. Her heart pounded as she walked with Ari across the beach. He led her to a bench near the steps to the hotel where a lone figure sat waiting in the shadows. As Abby approached, she saw that it wasn’t the Israeli agent but a woman about sixty years old with dark gray-threaded hair and a beautiful, serene face. She wore a long, silky caftan that billowed like summer curtains in the breeze. She looked insubstantial, ethereal—like someone you might meet in a dream.

“Hello, Abby,” the woman said, smiling. “I’m Hannah Rahov. Thank you so much for allowing me to intrude on your solitude. Won’t you sit down?”

Abby sank onto the bench beside the archaeologist with relief, her heart gradually slowing to normal. She was only dimly aware of Ari saying good-night and climbing the stairs to the hotel. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Dr. Rahov,” Abby managed to say. “Your cousin seemed like a very kind, gentle man.”

“Thank you, dear. He was.” She rested her hand on Abby’s for a moment. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to relive what happened today. I simply wanted to meet you and to thank you on behalf of our family for . . . for holding Ben until the end. And for caring. Ari told me how you wept, not for yourself but for Ben. Thank you.”

Dr. Rahov paused to wipe a tear from her dark, luminous eyes. Then she smiled, and Abby glimpsed the hope in her grief. Once again, Abby was struck by the simple beauty in Hannah Rahov’s aging face, the warmth of her smile.

“I hope we shall become friends, Abby. And that you will call me Hannah.”

“I’d like that very much.” Abby already felt drawn to her, as quickly as she had been drawn to her cousin, Benjamin Rosen. “Please tell me about him,” she said. “Was he married? Does he have children?”

Hannah smiled. “Yes, he and his wife have five children, three boys and two girls. I can’t even recall how many grandchildren now—dozens of them! They’re scattered all over Israel.” She spoke of him fondly. “Ben and I grew up together, almost like brother and sister, though he’s nearly three years older than me. Our fathers were brothers—as well as business partners—and we all immigrated here together in the 1950s. Ben has been a foundation stone in my life for so long that I can’t quite imagine that he’s really gone . . . or how I’ll get along without him. I shall surely miss him,” she said simply.

“They told me that he was some sort of secret agent for the government.”

“A
spy
, yes.” She emphasized the word dramatically, but her eyes smiled as she said it. “Though you would never meet a more unlikely candidate for the job—sweet, gentle Ben. I suppose that’s what made him so good at what he did. People expect a spy to resemble a suave James Bond, not a jolly grandfather.”

“Was that the reason someone killed him? Was it some sort of spy drama? Who would do a thing like that . . . Palestinian terrorists?”

Hannah leaned against the bench and sighed. The sound of it seemed to blend with the sighing of the sea. “Not necessarily. It could just as easily have been our fellow Israelis—one of the many factions that doesn’t want to negotiate with the Palestinians. Ben was very involved with the peace process these past few years. He often told me he was willing to risk his life so that future generations could live in peace. He wanted to bring an end to the hatred and the endless cycle of revenge. Blood feuds are a terrible practice that go back for centuries, even millennia . . . you killed my brother for killing your father, so now I’ll retaliate by killing your son . . . on and on until no one even remembers who started it in the first place.”

“But wouldn’t Mr. Rosen’s family want to see his murderer caught and punished?”

“Of course, but justice should be accomplished through our court system, not through blood feuds. In ancient times, after Joshua conquered the Promised Land, his first act of government was to establish cities of refuge—safe places where the accused could seek justice and halt the vicious cycle of retaliation. Thousands of years later, we’ve seen the miraculous rebirth of our nation, yet the cycle of revenge continues.”

Abby felt an ember of hatred flicker to life in her own heart, as if Hannah’s words had fanned a smoldering coal. She knew how it felt to wish for revenge.

“In any event,” Hannah continued, “though we mourn for Ben, we also know that the Almighty has a plan and a purpose for everything that happens.”

“Even for adultery . . . and betrayal?” The words flew from Abby’s mouth before she had a chance to stop them. Hannah’s dark eyes studied her for a moment. Abby felt as though they were gently searching her heart, probing it as a physician might examine a patient for pain.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” Abby stammered. “I didn’t mean to say that. . . .”

“It’s all right. I think you needed to say it.” Hannah reached for her hand again. “What do you hope to gain from this trip, Abby? Why did you come to Israel?”

“Well, the easy answer is that I’m a history teacher. I love ancient history, love reading about archaeology. So when I saw the list of dig opportunities and the call for volunteers, I jumped at the chance to fulfill a dream.”

“But there’s something more, isn’t there?”

Abby paused, staring into her lap. It didn’t feel at all strange to unburden herself to a woman she had just met. It felt safe, in fact—as if she had fled to one of the cities of refuge Hannah had mentioned. “Yes. I’m also running away, escaping the pain of my failed marriage . . . the humiliation, the emptiness of what used to be our home.”

“You’ve fled to a good place, then,” Hannah said. “Isaiah wrote that this land would be a refuge and a hiding place from the storm.”

Abby looked up at her again. “I understand that thirst for revenge you spoke about, Hannah. I’ve been angry . . . so angry it scares me. I want to hurt my husband as much as he hurt me. Maybe more. I want to get even, strike back at the other woman.” She paused, surprised at the vehemence of her feelings as she voiced them aloud for the first time. “I guess I came here to sort through all those emotions. And I also need to decide what to do about my future. Before I left home I applied for a teaching job near Chicago, thinking I might start all over in a new place this fall. I tried to resign, but my superintendent asked me to wait and see how I felt when I got back from Israel. Either way, I’ll probably sell our house. My two children will both be in college this fall, and I can’t afford it on my salary. Besides, there are too many memories in that house.”

Abby closed her eyes, remembering against her will the hours of hard work she and Mark had spent together on that old farmhouse—sanding floors, tearing out plaster and lath walls, their hair white with dust. She couldn’t live alone in their house. But what about the handprints Greg and Emily had made in the wet cement on the front porch steps? How could she ever leave those behind?

“Sorry,” Abby said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to dump all my garbage in your lap.”

“I don’t mind. You helped me tonight by letting me talk about Ben. When we’re carrying a heavy load, it helps to set it down now and then. Or better still, to share it with a friend.”

“I sensed that you were safe. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone else about my marriage. It wasn’t fair to unload on my kids, and most of my friends are also Mark’s friends. I’m too ashamed to talk about it at work.”

“Why? You’re not the one who committed adultery, I assume.”

“No, but people think there must be something wrong with a woman who can’t keep her husband. And I can’t talk to my parents, either. They think it’s scandalous for Christians to have marriage problems. They would probably say it’s my punishment for straying from the church.”

“Is that what you think, too? That God is punishing you?”

“Maybe . . . deep down. I used to be very involved in church activities—like my daughter, Emily, is now. When all this happened with Mark, I realized that something was lacking in my life. So I decided to use this trip to try to . . . re-discover my faith.”

“An excellent plan. Jesus said, ‘Come to me and I will give you rest.’”

Abby stared. “Excuse me if this sounds rude, but aren’t you Jewish?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . you just quoted Jesus.”

“I’m a Jewish believer in
Yeshua—
Jesus, the Messiah promised in the Jewish Scriptures,” Hannah said. “I know that verse firsthand because I also had to suffer pain and loss before I found rest in Christ. I hope there will be an opportunity to share my own spiritual journey with you before this summer is over, but tonight it is late. And I think we are both exhausted from all that has happened today.”

Hannah turned and groped beside the bench, retrieving two orthopedic canes fitted with arm braces. She pulled herself to her feet, and as her caftan billowed in the breeze, Abby saw that from the knee down a prosthesis replaced Hannah’s right leg.

“Walking on this beach must be difficult for you,” Abby said as they began the slow, limping trek through the deep sand to the hotel stairs. “May I help you, Hannah?”

“Yes, thank you, dear.”

Abby wrapped her arm around Hannah’s waist, supporting her, steadying her.

“This leg of mine is a nuisance, that’s for sure,” Hannah said. “But I’ve learned not to be afraid to accept help. It always draws me closer to the one who is offering it. See how we’re holding on to each other? I hope you won’t be afraid to let me help you with your struggles, Abby.”

“You’ll have to teach me how to lean on someone. I’ve had to get used to being independent since Mark left.”

“I was pretty independent, too,” Hannah said. “But in my line of work I often have to climb around in rough terrain. Archaeological sites can be treacherous, even without these sticks. Quit or accept help, that was my choice. I chose to accept help.” They reached the steep wooden stairs to the hotel and started up them.

“I admire your courage,” Abby said. “Most of us hate to be dependent on others. Our pride says it’s a sign of weakness.”

“It isn’t, though. It’s really a sign of strength,” Hannah said, breathless from the climb. “Life has a way of handicapping each of us in one way or another. Those who don’t limp have probably quit—or else they haven’t come to terms with their loss yet. When I fall—which happens often—I can either lie there feeling sorry for myself or I can accept help, get up, and go on. Perhaps God wants to teach you a similar lesson.”

Hannah paused to rest at the top of the stairs and opened her arms wide. Abby hugged her, as she had hugged Benjamin Rosen earlier that day—had it really been that same day? She felt the strength of Hannah’s embrace in return. “Thank you,” Hannah said. But somehow Abby felt as though she had been the one who had been helped.

When she returned to her room, Abby calculated the time in Indiana and decided that Emily would be home from her summer job by now. Abby sat cross-legged on the bed and dialed the long string of numbers, amazed at how simple it was to call someone halfway around the world. She felt childishly excited, longing for the sound of her daughter’s voice. She pictured Emily in shorts, barefooted, sitting outside on the porch swing with the portable phone propped against her shoulder.

“Hello.”

A man answered the phone, not Emily.

“Greg? Why aren’t you at work?”

“Abby? This isn’t Greg, it’s me . . . Mark.”

Rage boiled up inside her, out of control. “How dare you come into my house the moment I’m gone! Get out, Mark! Get out right
now
!”

Abby thought she had finished trembling for the day, but she began to shake uncontrollably. She heard Mark’s muffled voice as he handed Emily the phone, telling her to talk to her mother.

“Mom, I’m sorry . . . please don’t be mad.” Emily was crying. “I asked Daddy to come over. Somebody broke into our house. They trashed the place, Mom. I came home from work and saw the mess and . . . and I was just so scared! I called the police and then I tried to call Greg but I couldn’t reach him, so I called Daddy at work. He just got here a few minutes ago.”

Abby leaned against the headboard and closed her eyes, trying to take it all in. What more could happen on this disastrous day? “It’s all right, honey. Don’t cry. How . . . how much did they steal?”

“It’s hard to tell with this mess . . . and we haven’t finished looking yet. So far we’re missing some cash and that little TV you keep in the kitchen . . . and Greg’s portable CD player and maybe your cell phone, unless Greg has them. The police think the thieves were mostly looking for money.”

“I’m coming home.”

“Mom, no! Don’t do that! You worked so hard to save for your trip. I’ll be all right. Daddy offered to sleep here for a few nights until I stop shaking.”

“Emily—”

“I’m scared, Mom. The police said that sometimes the thieves will wait until you replace everything and then break in again. Besides, I don’t have a clue what to do about the insurance and everything.”

Abby could barely control her fury. “I don’t want your father and that . . .
woman
in my house!”

“She’s not here, Mom,” Emily said in a lowered voice. “Just Dad. He knows how Greg and I feel.”

“Well, your father is
not
moving back in! He can stay tonight, but then I want him gone!”

“All right . . . I’m sorry for dumping all of this on you, Mom. I didn’t even ask how you were or how your trip went. Did you survive the flight okay?”

Abby didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. For some reason—maybe the fact that Mark was with Emily—Abby suddenly decided not to relate her story. “Well, I’m here,” she finally said. “Which is more than I can say for my luggage.”

“You’re kidding! They lost your luggage?”

“It never showed up in Amsterdam.”

“That’s awful!”

Not nearly as awful as having an Israeli spy die in your arms
, Abby wanted to add. “It happens,” she said instead. “Airlines lose luggage every day. In fact, it’s a wonder any of it ever shows up in the right place.”

“Mom, hang on a minute. Daddy wants to talk to you.”

“No! I have nothing more to say to him—”

“Hello, Abby?”