The Book of Israela
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Jerusalem, 2002: the height of the second intifada. Kobi Benami is a middle-aged psychologist whose life is in shambles. His wife has thrown him out for his casual philandering; his daughter refuses to speak to him; and the new clinic director has placed him on probation for his indifferent work habits. At this desperate juncture, Kobi gets a new patient, Israela, whose story is full of uncanny biblical references, and whose powerful and enigmatic husband, Y, may or may not exist. Israela hasn't seen Y in months, but she is being stalked by his prophet-like emissaries who span a wide spectrum of Israeli society–Orthodox to secular, right-wing settlers to left-wing urban elites–united only in their harsh condemnation of Israela, fierce devotion to Y, and connection to The Outstretched Arm, a sinister organization purported to be run by Y. As Kobi becomes ensnared in a surreal encounter with the anthropomorphized story of ancient Israel, and increasingly preoccupied with questions about the nature and existence of Y, he is forced to confront his own dysfunctional life patterns, his family's tragic past, and the endless war that rages around him.
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Rena Blumenthal
זכר צדיק לברכה
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She looked down at her drink, gathering her resolve, then back up at me. “When I was very young, my father left my mother for a younger woman. You can’t imagine how humiliating that was. My mother had to raise us alone, and she was stressed all the time, her eyes always red and brimming with tears. I wasn’t the oldest, but I was the only girl in the family, and I thought it was up to me to take care of the household, to make life easier for her. One day, when I was eight years old, she started crying and crying and couldn’t stop. I got really scared, and finally I called my father to ask him what to do. When he came over, he said she was having a ‘nervous breakdown,’ and arranged for her to be hospitalized. The whole experience was devastating.” She paused, collecting herself. “She was never the same after that. I still haven’t forgiven myself for calling him. If I had been able to handle things better, maybe she would have recovered on her own.”
She was so young, so vulnerable. How did people like her get through life? I wanted to tell her to leave this profession, leave this war-torn country, become an accountant in a place like Sweden. She kept snuffling her tears like she’d done in my office, wrinkling up her nose in that adorable way. I reached over and took her hands in mine as she raised her watery brown eyes, large drops of liquid hanging precariously on her lashes.
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