The End-Time Foretellers Page 7

  17

  Ventura Boulevard, Los Angeles, Friday Evening

  Where is the synagogue? Rami gave me the address; nothing. A small store bang in the middle of Ventura Boulevard, to the left of which was a martial arts learning center and to the right a laundromat. I double checked several times, maybe I got the address wrong? Suddenly, I saw two guys in white buttoned-up shirts and elegant trousers, wearing small yarmulkes, enter the store. I followed them in quickly. The quiet facade obscured a vibrant synagogue, dozens of men of different ages, some seated and some standing, in a relatively small space, and loud singing and general jubilation that wasn’t audible from the outside. Next to me stood a smiling young man with two small children holding hands, they sang “Lecha Dodi” in unison. I looked at the smallest of them, ‘sang’ was perhaps overstating it; he shouted the song along with everyone.

  I looked around. The synagogue looked improvised, rows of long plastic tables and white plastic chairs punctuated the space. Some of the worshipers read from white prayer books held in their hands, others sang with their eyes closed.

  Many diverse groups gathered in one place. Crocheted yarmulkes, white ones, some with a pompon and a black inscription, some black ones with a white inscription. The clothing was also a mixed bag - simple black trousers, elegant suits and jeans. Far from me, on the other side of the synagogue, I saw a few guys in jeans, with kippahs that looked as though they’d been pulled out of a pocket.

  “New here, eh?” Someone standing to my left asked me.

  “Excuse me?” I said. “Oh, yes, my first time in your synagogue.”

  “Don’t worry”,” he said, “you’ll feel right at home in no time. We have a righteous rabbi, he’ll help you integrate.” That’s all I need… to integrate here, I thought. Please let me be in and out of here as soon as possible, finish this mission and fly back to my little store in south Tel Aviv.

  It was a different time zone. Despite the lively and vibrant atmosphere, it was calm, as if they had left the week behind and gathered for prayer. Only I carried Rami, the fat man and Ehud with me.

  Something about the synagogue felt more like Israel than Israel. For a moment, it seemed to me that I was in Israel. It was strange to meet Israel in Los Angeles. I scanned the crowd and tried to identify Avi Schetritt based on the pictures Ehud had shown me. According to Rami, there was a high chance that Avi would be praying there that evening. I couldn’t find him.

  I felt like someone who had come to deceive little children. I looked around and saw “good Jews.” No one knew I was there to spy and if necessary - destroy.

  Rami maintained it wasn’t deceit, it was just that I couldn’t disclose everything to them, and it was also in their best interest not to find out. He explained that any of them would like to see me succeed in the mission of saving the Land of Israel from the Iranian threat. It made sense, but still I felt like a thief in a kindergarten.

  Military missions were easier for me - I understood the playing field - but in a synagogue, it felt strange. People were living their normal lives. I didn’t know how I fit into this narrative, especially during the Shabbat, which wasn’t special for me but apparently so for them. I took comfort in what Rami said; if they knew they’d do anything to help me.

  Rami told me to buy a yarmulke but it was too much. I bought a flat cap and put it on my head, quite a cool flat cap actually. Everyone seemed to know the prayer. I waited quietly on the side, I didn’t feel like pretending and didn’t want to stand out too much. At the end of the service a few people came to greet me with Shabbat Shalom.

  An energetic young man introduced himself as one of the synagogue’s wardens and prayer organizers and asked me where I was from, where I lived... Finally, he asked if I had a place to eat a Shabbat meal. He tried to speak in Hebrew but he had a heavy accent. I didn’t know what to answer so I stammered “Nnn... no”,,” and added “But it’s really okay.”

  A burly man in his early fifties was heading toward us with determination. He had a grayish-white beard and a huge white yarmulke decorated with gold piping. He moved the warden aside and announced with the smile of a hunter who had caught his catch, “This is my guest!” Emphasizing the word “my.” The warden looked at him in confusion and helplessness. He tried to apologize and explained with a smile that Binyamin had a special sense of humor.

  “I hope you like chicken with peaches,” Binyamin interrupted.

  “Chicken with peaches?” I asked.

  “That’s what we’re having for Shabbat”,” he smiled broadly and shook my hand warmly. “Shabbat Shalom. Binyamin Wolf.”

  18

  San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles, California

  Binyamin’s house was simple and tidy, one story, like most of the houses here. Not too luxurious but spacious and comfortable. A few pictures scattered on the walls, a warm atmosphere of earthy colors, light colored couches. The Sabbath table was positioned in the center of the living room and laden with delicacies. At the end of the table was a tray with two large challahs, next to which were some appetizing cold mezze. I managed to identify hummus, tahini, a kind of spicy matbouha and a carrot salad. There were other salads I couldn’t recognize from a distance. Apart from the salads there were two types of fish, salmon steak in dark sauce and gefilte fish – which was one thing I had no intention of going anywhere near. I understood it was meant to be a festive meal but I didn’t think there would be such a variety of foods. He introduced me to his son. “This is Aharon”,” he said. Aharon extended his hand. “Yoav”,” I squeezed it and introduced myself. Aharon looked about nine or ten years old. I asked him “How old are you, nine?” He nodded and sat down at the table. I sat down as well.

  “How did you know you’d be having guests?”

  “This is what it’s like on Sabbath, it’s not for the benefit of guests”,” Binyamin said with a smile and asked me to pass the carrot salad that was placed next to me.

  “Can you explain, Binyamin?” I asked and added, “And also pass me the grilled eggplant with tahini.”

  “It really is excellent”,” Binyamin said and passed it to me. “Have you tasted the celery root salad?”

  “What?” I asked, “What is that?”

  “Ah,” Binyamin said knowingly, handing me another salad, “it’s both delicious and very healthy.”

  “I looked at the salad, there was some grated white thing in it, which I later learned was the celery root, walnuts - well, we were in California - and I managed to identify sliced celery and apple. It really was delicious.

  We continued our meal. It was wonderful. Quiet, calm, away from the bustle of everyday life. I was glad I had come to his house. There was something good about Binyamin. He seemed to me like the kind of person who’s rough around the edges but gentle on the inside.

  “How many years have you been here?” I finally asked.

  “Five, almost five years in the US. My parents are originally from here so I’ve got an American passport.”

  “And where did you live in Israel?”

  “Hebron.“

  “Hebron?“

  “Yes, the City of the Patriarchs. Is there a problem?” Binyamin asked in a low tone of voice.

  “No... nothing,” I said, pointing to the spicy fish.

  “What?” he wouldn’t let it go and passed the fish.

  “I lost a friend in Hebron. Several guys from my unit, actually, but mainly a friend.“ I lowered my gaze to the plate.

  It went quiet for a moment.

  ”Me too.“

  I looked up.

  Binyamin closed his eyes for a moment and said, ”I lost my wife. Lilly.“

  Aharon got up hastily, took the first course plates and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Binyamin opened his eyes and looked at Aharon as he disappeared into the kitchen. “It’s hard for him”,” he said, and looked at me.
“He can’t even bear to hear about it. We haven’t really been able to process the tragedy, despite all the time that’s gone by.”

  I recalled the times in Hebron: sleepless days and nights, patrols, missions, incessant friction with a hostile population, nerve-wracking tension. And the sense that it’s just one big tragic mistake you’re stuck in. Yossi never agreed with me on this point. He said that we were exactly where we were supposed to be, that there were no mistakes and that it wasn’t for nothing. I loved his optimism. Until it was all brutally cut off all at once.

  We were guarding people like you, I thought. It drove me crazy. What were people doing in a place like this? Why be stuck among millions of Arabs, haven’t they got anything better to do? That’s why Yossi died, because we had to guard a bunch of families in Hebron. I couldn’t rise above it. “Because we guarded a few families, Yossi died.”

  A historic pain welled within me, maybe something could’ve been done. The sense of helplessness in the moment after, the infinite helplessness in the face of the debriefings and the repetitious analysis. Thousands of times I replayed the debriefing in my head, the testimony that Rami gave, again and again. Fastening it into my skull like a Bomag roller ensuring the path is fastened. We should not have been there. It shouldn’t have happened like that, Yossi shouldn’t have gone. Of all people, Yossi.

  In general, what are 19-year-olds doing in the middle of Hebron? And Rami? He shouldn’t have let Yossi take part in that mission, he had been sick for several days. Yossi insisted and Rami agreed. Maybe I should have ducked out of that mission. I was so tired and disoriented, I had hardly slept for a few days. Yossi smiled at me and said, “Come on, Yoav, we’ll bang this mission out and go home.“

  “A few families?” Asked Binyamin. “Is that what you think is going on there?”

  I didn’t want to enter into political or religious debates.

  “Really”,” he said, knocking on the table, “your indifference drives me crazy. That’s why I can’t live there, I see the faces from fancy Sheinkin Street, shaking their heads elegantly and giving the Arabs more and more, endlessly. They’re like a hungry animal. Unlike you, I’ve lived with them, and didn’t just go on patrol and drink a Coca Cola.”

  I felt the rage rising within me, what was he talking about? Does he have any idea what I went through in Hebron? What we all went through over there? Who was he to pass judgement? Sitting in the Valley in Los Angeles, making big pronouncements, I thought. I felt uncomfortable and wanted to change the subject. There’s no talking with fanatics, that’s a rule I’ve long established. I looked at him and saw a murderous look in his eyes. I felt that trying to drive him from his position would be like trying to move a mountain. He was locked on his azimuth and wasn’t going to budge an inch.

  Binyamin continued, pained, “Do you know what the problem is with all of you, Yoav? Do you?“

  Who is ”all of you?” I asked myself, who’s he lumping me with? I hadn’t even voted in the last election. He’s just projecting his own assumptions onto me, I thought. Another secular Ashkenazi liberal, lives on Sheinkin Street, drinks at Cafe Tamar. I’m fed up with political arguments, all these quarrels. I thought that in Los Angeles at least I’d have some quiet, away from the political cauldron of liberal and conservative, of them and us, I wanted to be left alone.

  “Look”,” I said. I put my hands up, I didn’t feel like arguing. “I’m not even into it, I didn’t even vote in the elections. I’m not on either side of the divide, I just want some quiet.”

  “Precisely!“ he said. ”If you were a liberal with Marxist ideals, there’d be something to talk to you about. If you were some Fascist with I don’t know what, there’d be a discussion. The Teflon Generation. You’re tired of living. Give back bleeding parts of our country? No problem! Just don’t take my turn in line at the coffee shop on Rothschild Street. Bogus quiet. It’s not quiet, Yoav, it’s death! Death of the soul! Don’t you feel it?” His eyes burned, I felt a pang inside of me.

  I didn’t answer, I was stunned by the attack. I felt uneasy.

  “No, you don’t feel it,” he said in a desperate tone. “That’s the problem, and that’s my learning right over you, you don’t feel anything”,” he paused, “disengaged”.”

  Binyamin buried his face in his hands and began breathing deeply. I didn’t know what to say or how to react, so I kept quiet.

  Finally he raised his head, I saw pain in his eyes. “You killed her. You killed Lilly, you let the Arabs kill her. Your indifference killed her, she died because no one cared. You should have guarded her and you should have let me do what those scum deserved”,” he began to get riled up. “What is the army doing there if it won’t do anything at the critical moment? At the moment when it’s needed?“

  Binyamin knocked on the table, got up and left the house. “I have to calm down for a minute”,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  Aaron emerged from the kitchen with a large plate of meat. He looked at the door, puzzled, as it closed and gave me a questioning look.

  “Dad went out to take a breather for a minute, he’ll be back soon,” I tried to explain.

  Aaron nodded and placed the meat in the center of the table.

  19

  “I gather he’s completely settled in,” Rami said to the cellular phone he was holding.

  “Not completely, he still needs to close,” answered the voice on the other side.

  Rami paced from side to side and held the phone close to his ear. “Well, keep me informed when you know something, okay?”

  “What do you think?”

  Rami was silent.

  “I think that was a bad choice.”

  “What?”

  “Yoav.” Deep breath. “He didn’t seem professional enough to me and... he isn’t cooperative. He’s not a guy you can work with. Maybe...”

  “One more word and you’re out, do you understand?” Rami’s heavy breathing was clearly audible through the telephone. “One more word and I’m bringing you back to Israel and the big party in America will be through, you understand?!”

  Silence.

  “Do you hear me?” asked Rami, “What about the car?

  Have you hijacked it and put the charges in?”

  “Not yet, I’m still…”

  “Listen to me and listen well. If you do not get the…”

  “Calm down, Rami, they keep changing the routes. I’ve already gotten hold of the charges – you ordered quite a blast. I brought the remote detonator on the plane, and I got the electronic equipment for the wiring here in Los Angeles.

  I’m going to hijack the car really soon, I’ll just throw something in front of it and behind it and it’ll stop completely. Then I will break in and disconnect the communications system, connect our circuits and travel beyond the detection range. They’ll never look for a San Francisco car in the Los Angeles area.”

  “ What about the... well, those things on the roof of the…”

  “The electronic instruments on the roof measuring the distance and all that? Don’t worry, I’m installing one-way mirrors on the roof and that’s how the scanners can work, but from the side it’ll look like mirrors. To be on the safe side, I’m also pasting a sticker on the door ‘Mirror King of the Valley’. What do you think? “

  “Umm...” Rami said, “I don’t know.”

  “It’ll be okay, Rami, calm down.”

  “I’m not very calm, lately you’ve started...” Rami didn’t finish the sentence.

  “By the way, the Iranians are looking for other ways. Do you know about that?”

  “Yes,” Rami said. “That’s why I’m even more worried. There isn’t much time, you have to act.”

  20

  The Valley, Los Angeles

  On Sunday morning, Binyamin’s street was quiet and empty. I arrived early, at around 8:00 AM, and knocke
d on his door. There was no answer. I knocked again. Strange, we said 8 AM.

  “Yoav!” I heard a call behind me. I turned and saw Binyamin returning from the synagogue wearing a tallit and tefillin. We went into the house and he slammed the door behind us. “Welcome, I’ll remove the tallit and tefillin, and I’ll show you the place.”

  He took them off, looked at me for a moment and said nothing. I felt tension in the air.

  “Listen,” he said, lowering his eyes as he folded up the tallit and put it into its bag. “I want to apologize.”

  “Apologize?”

  “For Friday night, it wasn’t right, my outburst.”

  “Oh.”

  “It hurts me so much when I remember Lily and what happened. I feel as though it was my fault. I feel ashamed and I can’t stand the pain, so I blame the whole world. I know it has nothing to do with you and ask for your forgiveness.”

  “It’s really okay,” I replied. He paused.

  “Are you sure?”

  I thought for a second.

  “Truth is that it bothered me,” I admitted. “I felt like you’re accusing me of something that has nothing to do with me. I tried to protect you over there, you have no idea what we went through... and that’s the thanks I get.”

  “You’re right,” he said, adding, “I’m sorry.”

  “I can understand you, I was sorry to hear about your wife.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and nodded.

  “Come,” he said, opening the front door, “I’ll show you the place.”

  We walked out of the house and went into the residential unit that was next door. The wood paneling of the unit had recently been polished. Binyamin opened the door dramatically, “This is the palace!”