Читать книгу The Gaza Project - Cyrill Delvin - Страница 12

The barbed wire fence was simply there. Out of nowhere it had materialised in front of Abarron. With each push of the swing he tried to reach it with the tips of his toes. If only he could manage to touch it. Then it would burst like a bubble and disappear. And there would be nothing left between him and them. But his attempts were in vain. Even worse, with each backwards swing, the wire fence, too, swung back.

Back and forth – back and forth.

He could stretch out his hand. But then he would have to let go and fall off the swing. Even when he got really close to the fence, it was always just that bit too far. Always just out of reach. Yet he knew that it would dissolve, if only he could touch it. He was absolutely certain.

Back and forth – back and forth.

Abarron couldn’t stop the swing and was terribly scared of falling off. Beneath him was a gigantic crater. From the abyss a grimacing skull with scraps of skin and flaming eyes was staring up at him relentlessly, only waiting for the boy to release the chains to grab the fence. Skull and fence kept the boy in check. If only he could jump off the swing and land on the ground in front of the big hole.

Back and forth – back and forth.

Behind the fence sat his father, his mother and his younger brother Eliachim around a small table, drinking lemonade. Abarron was very thirsty. The sun was scorching hot, merciless. It was July in Ashkelon. Only the little table was shaded by a parasol. A beautiful parasol with light blue and red flowers and white clouds. His mother kept on waving to him.

Come on and join us. We have ice-cold lemonade.

But he was trapped on the swing above the abyss and behind the fence.

Back and forth – back and forth.

His mother was smiling and from time to time his father also looked up from his glass and beamed at him with his dark brown eyes. Only his brother had his back turned to him while drinking the ice-cold, sweet lemonade. His throat was even more parched now until it felt like the dried up and cracked clay soil underneath the olive grove in the sun.

He had bought Eliachim a shovel for his birthday. He just had to wrap it and sleep two more times before he could give him the present. They would both be overjoyed. Eliachim because of the shovel for the sand heap and he because Eliachim would be so happy with it. With every movement of the swing, the shovel pressed against his thigh. It glowed in a golden orange.

But Eliachim didn’t turn around; he just sat motionless at the table. His mother still waved to him and his father stared into his glass. He wanted to call out to them, but his throat was now completely dry. Not a sound escaped his chapped lips. His hands tensed around the chains attached to the swing.

Back and forth – back and forth.

With each swinging movement his hands got hotter until they were glowing. The fiery sun was blazing from above, and the gaze of the decayed head flamed from below. His hands began to burn. It reeked of scorched flesh. He couldn’t let go of the chains. The heat baked the soles of his feet and singed his hair. His mother smiled at him. His father looked up and beamed at him again. Only Eliachim didn’t turn around.

Back and forth – back and forth.

The pain was excruciating and the smell of burned flesh made him feel nauseous. Blood flowed down his legs, forming the Arabic letters for ›underdogs‹. His insides started to boil until he exploded and the flesh was torn from his bones in fist sized pieces. His shattered bones scattered projectile-like in all directions. A pulp of fat, blood and intestines splashed all around him and was swallowed by the infernal crater.

Abarron wanted to scream!

The mother smiled.

The father beamed.

The shovel pressed against his thigh.

Eliachim had his back turned to him.

In the end his heart broke, was torn to shreds – behind the barbed wire fence.

He woke up drenched in sweat. Only slowly did his spirits return. Outside it was still night and the other children in the dormitory were asleep. He turned his head to the side and gazed out of the open window. The moon was nearly full and the crickets chirped their last song of the night. Or were they already greeting the morning?

Four years ago, just after his parents and his brother had been killed during the Palestinian suicide bombing of the café in Ashkelon, he had also had this dream. That very evening his grandmother had put him to bed in her place. Utterly confused, he had asked her to help him wrap Eliachim’s birthday present. Secretly, of course, preferably tomorrow when Eli is outside playing. His grandmother had started to cry and couldn’t speak. She hugged her grandchild tightly and kissed him goodnight.

Since then, he hadn’t had the nightmare again. Until three weeks after their night-time excursion to the Arabic teacher’s room. From then on it had been a regular occurrence.

A radical Islamic group claimed responsibility for the bombing in Aschkalon. In retaliation, the Israeli air force soon after attacked the beach in southern Gaza. Thirteen civilians died in Israel, twenty five on the Palestinian side. The press was in uproar in both camps; then life continued as usual.

For a long time Abarron didn’t understand why the Arabs had killed his parents and his brother. Of course he had known even then that the Palestinians were evil and dangerous neighbours, not to mention their lack of culture. Up to that point though this hadn’t been a reality to him, but just stories. When later on he understood what had happened, he still hadn’t believed for a long time that rage and despair often went hand in hand with death. And when he had finally believed it, it had been too late for him. The hatred that had been sown on that day was bearing fruit. From that moment on he was a prisoner of his own self.

Ever since, he had lived with his grandparents in one of the countless tower blocks outside Ashkelon. But with the loss of his family he also felt the connection to his grandparents slip away. Perhaps even his connection to people in general. For this reason he actually quite liked the King David boarding school. Here, he didn’t need anybody and nobody wanted anything from him – he thought.

»I can see that you are an outstanding pupil,« Rishon Weisz told him the next day. »Your marks are excellent and your conduct is impeccable.« Weisz lifted his gaze from the documents on his heavy desk and looked right into the student’s eyes.

The spacious office was on the ground floor of the school building and had large windows protected by tight wire mesh looking out onto the sports grounds. Through the open window one could hear the screeching and yelling of the playing children. »Do you know why I asked you to see me?«

Abarron shook his head. The graffiti in the Arabic teacher’s room wouldn’t be the reason. The episode had taken place too long ago and the fuss had died down by now.

Abarron didn’t really know the deputy headmaster. He wasn’t in any of his classes and he was rarely talked about in the school. Abarron hadn’t been guilty of any misconducts so far, or rather had always been clever enough not to be found out. He had no idea why Weisz wanted to talk to him.

»You complete all your assignments to the teachers‘ satisfaction, so you must wonder what this may be about?«

Abarron didn’t answer, but he frantically tried to think what he may have done wrong. The deputy sensed the boy’s unease and took his time.

»You may also wonder why you, David, Jachin und Samuel didn’t get busted?«

His voice sounded as if he were chatting about the weather. Something didn’t add up. The man facing him obviously knew more than he liked.

»And you may ask yourself why you weren’t punished for threatening and humiliating one of the teachers on our staff.«

Weisz had risen from his seat; his eyes had narrowed to slits and his voice had changed to a hiss. The deputy’s jovial demeanour had given way to a very different expression. He was not the man Abarron had thought he was. Suddenly he seemed threatening.

Abarron involuntarily took a step back. Does he know something? And how? He’s bluffing or he would have brought it up sooner… Or is he playing games?!

Weisz watched the boy through the corners of his eyes. It seemed as if he could read his every thought and emotion.

»As far as I am concerned, I would have expelled the three older students long ago. They’re good for nothing. You are the only reason that the four of you got away with it until now, Abarron Preiss.«

»But, Sir, I don’t know what you mean.«

»It’s enough that I know,« Weisz interrupted him unmoved.

»Please, ask David or Samuel. We weren’t involved in…«

»I don’t believe a word you’re saying. But you’re clever and talented – just not when it comes to lying.«

Abarron appeared more and more unsure of himself.

»I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you became a boarder. And believe me, I’m a good judge of character. I could have stopped you that night, even before you broke into the teachers‘ quarters, but I wanted to find out what you boys had planned and how. Or what you had planned, to be more precise. The others could perhaps have come up with the idea, but putting it into action, no, that needed a bit more cunning.«

The boy didn’t know what Weisz was getting it. Had they left evidence that had only now been discovered? Perhaps one of the older boys had given them away? It would be just like David or Samuel; presumably to impress the girls.

The vice-principal’s eyes stayed firmly fixed on him.

Abarron frantically considered how he should react. Tell the truth and hope that Weisz had a reason for not expelling him? Or keep his mouth shut in the hope that he didn’t have any actual proof? Was the whole thing a trap and if yes, why?

»It’s not a trap!«

Abarron was baffled. »I… I…«

Weisz didn’t say anything.

»I mean, I have…« again Abarron’s voice failed him.

The deputy merely lifted his eyebrows. Abarron started to sense a strange feeling creeping up inside him. Something he had suppressed for a long time. And it wasn’t the images from his dream.

»I hate those damned Arabs!« he finally shouted. »They killed my family!« That said it all. For the first time ever Abarron had openly expressed his hatred. His whole body shook uncontrollably and he tried to fight back his tears. »I know al-Jabiri is no murderer, but he is… an Arab,« he stammered.

Weisz looked at him without batting an eyelid. But he was suddenly unsure if he hadn’t been wrong about the boy: He’s still only a child, and he’ll learn how to come to terms with his feelings.

»How do you know?«

»What?«

»That al-Jabiri isn’t a murderer?«

»But…« he lowered his head.

»I can feel the rage and the hatred inside you. And I understand both. But let me give you a piece of advice you should heed. When you are angry you just rashly react to your circumstances; to the fact that an Arab killed your family. Your rage blinds you. Hatred, on the other hand, is your decision. Give some serious consideration to how you decide. And now go.« Weisz abruptly ended the conversation and pointed to the door.

Abarron trembled when he left the office with a strange sense of foreboding.

It’s nearly time – now or never. Orphaned, family killed in a suicide bombing – the perfect prerequisites. He was also intelligent. An ideal combination which could be extremely useful to the secret service later on. But such a promotion required a stable environment and, most of all, a focussed contact person. He would provide the boy with both.

In the following weeks, Abarron changed. He appeared depressed and withdrew even more into his shell than usual. His pals didn’t notice. Since their last stunt they’d hardly ever met and Abarron wouldn’t have dreamed of telling David or Samuel about his chat with the deputy head. The three older students were too preoccupied with themselves. It was nearly the end of term and it was more important for them to concentrate on their exams. Besides, they also invested a lot of time chasing girls.

Abarron found it hard to concentrate during his lessons. Time and again he would see the images of that terrible day on the playground when he had to witness his family being blown up. He was unable to suppress the memory. And when he tried to divert his thoughts, all that came to mind was the Arabic words written on his leg in his own blood.

But one night he dreamed he was languishing in the desert. A lone, emaciated wolf was stalking him in ever smaller concentric circles. Abarron was too weak to flee and the wolf was coming closer and closer. Abarron Preiss, what are you waiting for? the beast grinned in a menacing, yet soothing tone of voice. Until he stood right in front of him and showed his fangs. The gruesome, grimacing skull from his nightmare laughed at him through the wide open jaw and melted into a single monster with the wolf and the deputy’s face. Come to me…

When the boy woke up he didn’t dare open his eyes at first. By now he was grateful for every dreamless night. Rage is blind, hatred is a decision. He still didn’t know the meaning of the vice principal’s words. But he started to suspect that they were somehow linked to his future. Should I not hate the Palestinians for killing Eli? Do I have to forgive the Arabs? Is that what he had meant? But it wasn’t a straightforward decision like choosing what T-shirt to wear in the morning. That wasn’t particularly difficult because he always just took the one on top of the pile in his wardrobe. He was intelligent enough to see that this was about something else. But what?

Before the end of term, he gathered all his courage to ask Weisz. The door to the man’s office was slightly ajar and Abarron was about to knock when he heard the vice-principal’s voice.

»Yes, General Markowitz. Yes, Sir. I will assemble a suitable team… Who do I report to? … Yes, Sir!«

Weisz put down his mobile phone and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he noticed Abarron outside his door. »Come in,« Weisz said testily, annoyed with himself for not having closed his door properly. »What do you want?«

»Mr Weisz, you said that I have to decide if I hate the Arabs or not. How shall I do that?« After a short pause he added: »Why should I not hate the Arabs?«

Weisz’s expression relaxed: »Anger is like a prison. It stifles you, and you can no longer see the world as it is. That way it dictates everything you think and do and you end up being a prisoner of your rage.«

»I don’t understand.«

»To scrawl slogans on the wall out of rage, to use your fists or weapons is easy. It doesn’t change the fact that the Arabs are here.« Weisz took his time before he continued: »If you want to effectively deal with the Arabs in our country who murdered your family, you need a clear head. You have to be free to think and act. And you’re only free when you master your hatred, not if you are a slave to your rage and your emotions.« He took a step closer to Abarron: »You don’t have to decide if you hate the Arabs or not. They took away the people you loved. The question is how you want to use your hatred. Do you want to throw stones blinded by your fury and then serve in an army condemned to inertia? Or do you want to make sure that no Israeli will ever have to suffer the loss of a loved one again? That is what you have to decide.«

Abarron began to understand.

Weisz had been right about the boy. His poison was starting to work. The boarding school’s vice-principal was actually an active Colonel in the Israeli army. That night he had watched the boys on the grounds from his bedroom window. The binoculars with the integrated residual light amplifier presented a pretty clear picture of what was going on. Usually he would have intervened when he heard the main door being opened. But when he had recognised Abarron, he had let things unfold.

Recruiting new blood was an activity nobody at the school must get wind of. The Colonel was the son of General Baruch Weisz, who had pioneered the Israeli wall strategy together with General Kemuel Markowitz. He was also an extremely good judge of character. His students always excelled in the country’s military organisation.

Abarron generally spent the summer holidays at his grandparents. He liked them, but didn’t try to get close to them. More reticent and unapproachable than before, he preferred hiding himself away somewhere in the drab settlement and reading instead of playing with the other children. As time went by it started to dawn on him what Weisz had meant. And he knew that he had already made his decision long ago. He had chosen hatred. Whatever else was buried deep inside him increasingly lost its power. His conscience tried to fool him into thinking that he’d made the wrong decision or that that it wasn’t so straightforward. But he suppressed his nagging feeling as well as he could. And he became better at it the older he got.

His grandparents were well aware how the boy was hiding behind an impenetrable wall. They also noticed how he became colder all the time. Without understanding why, they secretly hoped that their grandchild would someday avenge the injustice of that spring morning four years ago.