Hostage

  The storyteller and his ramblings. Locked up in a jail built of words.

  In school, Shaltiel remembered, no one knew anything about the situation and destiny of his strange schoolmate, Yohanan. The handsome adolescent was different from the others. He was withdrawn, timid, detached from his environment; he never raised his voice but listened intently to everything that was being said. Sometimes he uttered incoherent sounds, unintelligible noises whose meaning no one understood. Amused or serious, he seemed to be attuned to a different universe. Some students made fun of him at first. Admonished by their teacher, they stopped. He had been accepted into the school out of compassion for his parents or grandparents, who had greatly suffered in exile, it was said.

  One day, he stopped coming to class. It was thought that his parents had taken him on a trip or placed him in a specialized institution. Later, Shaltiel learned the details. The world-renowned ethnologist Professor Robert Marcus was a friend of Yohanan’s father. He came to visit him one evening and, by chance, he heard the boy’s babbling. “He’s ill,” his father said. Intrigued, Dr. Marcus listened to him attentively. The noises followed a regular rhythm. It took a trained ear to hear them. “Your son isn’t ill,” he said to his friend. The scientist returned to the house regularly. He and Yohanan became inseparable. Ten months later, an international academic colloquium was held in New York where about twenty ethnologists were invited to listen to Yohanan. Guided and supported by Dr. Marcus, the young adolescent recalled distant events in his language. Specialized journals devoted enthusiastic pages to him. One of Marcus’s students chose him as the subject of his doctoral thesis.

  One morning, to everyone’s astonishment, he started to pronounce a few simple words: He was hungry and thirsty. He said he missed someone who was waiting for him. He died a short time later with a smile on his lips. Professor Marcus delivered the funeral oration. He said, “Beloved Yohanan, you knew a truth that is hidden from us, that of the ancients, and now you brought it back to them, intact and pure.”

  “Yohanan’s poem,” Shaltiel said, “is a prayer. Sometimes it is recited by man, at other times by God himself. Both are in jail.”

  “I like it,” said Luigi. “Your friend makes me sad, but I like that sadness.”

  And what if I myself were Yohanan? Shaltiel wondered. And what if my present-day stories were addressed to generations buried centuries ago? And who will relate—and in what language—the story I am living through right now?

  I was unaware that initially my two jailers belonged to two different small groups but later joined a large terrorist movement recently founded in America by a young Saudi activist known as Hassan ibn Hassan. Their strategy was to destabilize the situation in Israel by striking American Jews, Israel’s main supporters. That’s how, by pure chance, I became their target. It was the Mossad envoy who first suggested the possibility. It was soon confirmed by a message received at The New York Times. Below is its content, similar to the message Blanca had received at the beginning of this misadventure.

  To whom it may concern: We are detaining the Jewish writer Shaltiel Feigenberg. He is our hostage. If they wish to see him again alive, the Jewish authorities in Tel Aviv and Washington will have to free three of our people who are in prison for their heroic combat against the occupation of their land. Today the prisoner is in good health. But his future is no longer in our hands.

  That evening Luigi revealed to me the terms of the deal.

  “There’s still a chance you’ll survive,” he said. “We’re waiting for the official response to our request. I’m confident.”

  “What accounts for your confidence?”

  “The pity I have for you.”

  “The pity for what?”

  “We thought you were someone else; it’s silly, but that’s what happened. We made you suffer without even thinking about who you were.”

  “Should I thank you for your humane confession? Have no illusions: Your deal won’t be accepted by either America or Israel. They’ll see it as despicable and they’ll be right.”

  “In that case, be aware that you’ll never see your family again.”

  Later, my thoughts turned to my older brother, Pavel. Hadn’t he gone to Moscow to help the revolution?

  So I’ll die soon. That’s obvious. Terror, that refined prison of modern times, imposes its law—a implies b. It was clear from the first day, the first hour. The Arab’s voice said it clearly, regardless of his words.

  At this fateful moment facing death, does everyone, the patient in the hospital, the exhausted old man, have the same feeling, not of incoherence but of confusion? Does thought move forward or backward in fits and starts? Does the rhythm of time slow and gather speed independently of our will? Does childhood become close and the future distant and inaccessible? For me, the planet has shrunken to the size of a basement. I see now that I will live out the rest of my days with these two enemies as my sole companions. They alone will be present for my last minutes on earth. It will be their images that I’ll bring with me into the other world. But to whom will I relate the story of my final hours?

  Now everything will depend on the downhill speed.

  In prison, you cling to memory. It’s a form of freedom.

  I am about five or six years old. It’s a summer day. The sky and everything else is luminous: the face of my grandfather as he takes me into his garden, the grass, the fruit trees. I pick up a plum. I recite the appropriate prayer before putting it in my mouth. My grandfather congratulates me. “That’s good, my child. Do you know who eats without praying?” I don’t know. He tells me. “Animals. They eat because they’re hungry.”

  I answer, “And I ate that plum without being hungry.”

  “It’s true. You ate that plum because it was there.”

  “But why the prayer? In order to thank God?” I say.

  “Yes, that’s it. To thank God, blessed be He.” Grandfather nods his head and asks me to translate the prayer:

  “Blessed are You, God, our God, King of the universe, who has created the fruit of the tree.”

  My grandfather smiles. “But the words ‘thank you’ aren’t included! You’re just blessing God.” I probably disappointed my grandfather. He caresses my head and says, “Every prayer means acknowledging that everything on man’s earth comes from the Creator: the leaves rustling in the wind, wine, thirst, the clouds and the sun, joys and sorrows, happiness and desire—as well as this moment in time that we’re spending together.”

  He kisses me on the forehead. And we continue our walk. I love my grandfather. He has been dead for years, but I love him in the present. Tall, majestic, his eyes alternately feverish and soothing. He is there when I call him. Did I sometimes call out to him without knowing why? Just to hear his voice? To make sure he could hear me?

  But now, I don’t understand: What’s this incident doing in my prison? Oh yes, I remember. My grandfather concluded in a whisper: “You’re at the bottom of the mountain. May you climb up without suffering.”

  From my father, I heard spellbinding stories about my grandfather. He raised his children in a small village next to his native town. He owned an inn and his whole family worked in it. It was closed on Saturdays, which complicated matters for Christian customers. Most of them understood. However, every so often drunkards came and knocked at the door, demanding a bottle on the Sabbath. Some of them threatened to wreck the place. My courageous grandfather confronted them in his Sabbath clothes and told them in no uncertain terms that the God of the Jews could strike them dead in the blink of an eye. The hotheads always backed off, except once when there was a brawl. Grandfather and his children lost one battle, but not their honor.

  Help, Grandfather!

  I miss being able to wash. I feel dirty, ugly, disgusting. The bathroom is nearby, and when I hear the water running, that too tortures me. I’m tied to a stool now; before I was spread out on the floor. My wrists and ankles are sore. The migraines continue. It takes an intense mental effort
to summon those I love, living and dead.

  Memory, please stay open for the beloved faces, the smiles, joys, words of my father. My love for them makes me vulnerable, fragile. I will die far away from them.

  The door opens quietly. My abductors are both there. No doubt they’re bringing me my meal: stale bread and lukewarm water, as usual? Is it my morning meal or evening meal? I’m more thirsty than hungry. They’ve released my wrists so I can go to the toilet, but they still hurt. So do my eyes. The men help me climb to the first floor. In a dry, hoarse voice, the Arab says to me, “Look around. You feel the air? We opened the window a bit, so you can see the world you’re about to leave. Look at the apple tree; take it in. It’s the last one you’ll see. And don’t blame us for all of this. Blame your Jews. They’re still rejecting our conditions. Meanwhile, you’re being of no help to us. We just want you to write a letter begging them to have pity on you and your family. And to free the three prisoners.”

  My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it could burst.

  God of my forefathers, protect those who love me and whom I love.

  We’re in the synagogue. It’s packed for Yom Kippur. My grandfather explains the prayers to me. God, the King of Kings, sits on His throne on high and judges the living: who will live and who will die; who will be brought down and who will be elevated. I ask, “Does He also judge the judges who have imprisoned so many Jews, Papa?” His finger on his lips, he lets me know that it is forbidden to talk during the solemn prayer. Afterward, he tells me, “God, blessed be He, is just; He is the source of all truths; His truth is the reward of good people and the punishment of the impious.”

  Why this memory? What is truth doing in this cursed place, right now, on what is surely the last day of my life?

  My father later told me how this litany had been composed and by whom. This is the medieval story of Rabbi Amnon of Mainz. It was three days before the New Year. When the local bishop ordered the Jewish inhabitants to convert to Christianity, the great scholar requested three days of reflection, which he regretted with all his heart. He should have said no right away. He was tortured, his limbs amputated. Upon his request, he was carried into the synagogue, where the congregation was praying, observing the rites of Rosh Hashanah. He asked that the service be interrupted and, with his last breath, recited the prayer I just mentioned. What about me? What will I do with my last breath?

  Later in the service, there is mention of the ten martyrs who were executed for their loyalty to the faith. They were summoned before the tyrannical emperor Hadrian, who questioned them: “What does the Jewish Law say about a person who abducts one of his fellow men in order to sell him into slavery?”

  “The law would have him sentenced to death,” they say. “Freedom is no less important than life.”

  “But weren’t your ancestors, the sons of Jacob, guilty of this crime when they sold Joseph into slavery? You shall be punished instead of them.”

  Suddenly I understand why all these memories come to mind: so that I’ll think about my predicament as a hostage. Does it come up in the Bible or the Talmud? What misdeeds, and whose misdeeds, am I expiating? Could it be that I involuntarily offended, upset, hurt and put someone in danger?

  Ahmed is very annoyed.

  “Your Jewish friends here and in Israel are abandoning you. If you’re honest with yourself, you must take a stand against their cruelty to you. And, at the same time, against the atrocities of the Jewish occupation of Palestine.”

  “No. I’m an American Jew tied to Israel by my soul. You can hit my body, you can wound it and even destroy it, but my soul will remain free, outside your reach. You’ll never imprison it.”

  I don’t consider myself a hero. I never have been one. I live from the fruits of my imagination and memory. Storyteller, writer, that’s my profession. Words are my only possession. I entertain children on their birthdays. Sometimes I fulfill the duties of cantor at religious Jewish marriages. And here I am being tormented as if I were a courageous spy, the author of heroic exploits.

  “Your soul, you dare speak of your soul! You’re Jewish, and Jews have no soul! The enemies of Islam have no soul!”

  “I’m not an enemy of Islam.”

  “All Yids are.”

  “I’m Jewish, but I’ve never been an enemy of other religions. I don’t know how one becomes one.”

  “You could at least admit you’re loyal to the Jewish state that despoils Arab lands! And you won’t sign a letter to your Jewish friends demanding they put pressure on the governments concerned?”

  “No, I won’t sign anything.”

  The Arab strikes me on my head, on the back of my neck, in my stomach. The Italian says and does nothing. Motionless, he stares at me fixedly and lets his comrade get his hands dirty. I hear myself moan and this humiliates me.

  “You loathe us,” the Arab yells. “Your loathing makes you proud. But it will also make you sorry you came out of your mother’s belly.”

  Why does the Arab speak of pride? Because I love Israel, and my passion for Jerusalem has never died? If praying for David’s eternal city is an act of war, then, yes, I’m guilty. But not of anything else.

  The Arab torturer pulls me out of my reverie brutally.

  “Here’s something you wrote …”

  He brings a sheet of paper up to my bloodied face. I can’t see well. It’s a newspaper clipping through the narrow slit. My torturer starts to read passages from the newspaper. He slaps me in the face systematically after each sentence. I pass out.

  When I awake, I see my grandfather, with his soft white beard. He urges me not to cry; it’s too painful for him when I cry. Nor can God on high bear the tears of a good little Jewish boy crying. He knows I like stories, so he tells me one.

  One day, the illustrious Hasidic Master, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, gathers his closest disciples in secrecy to teach them the mysteries of the final Redemption: how and when to recite certain litanies; say the number for each of the heavenly angels; take the ritual bath and cite specific verses of the Psalms and the Zohar; practice an absolute asceticism of silence and chastity for a specific number of days and nights. All the things that had come down to him from his Masters—and to them from theirs, going back to Rabbi Hayim Vital and the Ari, and as far back as Moses, all the things concerning the advent of the Messiah—he passed on to them. And he arranged for the next meeting to be at the edge of the forest. Together, they would strike up a sad song and, thanks to their fervor and mystical power, it would change into a triumphal hymn that could reverse the course of history, and the Messiah would see the Jewish people suffering in exile, and all of humanity, ill and severely wounded. Then, in an immense movement of compassion, he would announce the end of the wait.

  Well, said my grandfather after a sigh, the Master and his disciples went home separately and, loyal to their common wish, they each followed the instructions to the letter.

  The special day arrived. All the disciples, in ecstasy, met at the designated place in the forest. They waited for their Master, who was late. Agonizing hours went by. Finally, he appeared, exhausted, and more melancholic than ever. Do you know what he said to them? my grandfather asked me. “I’m proud of you, my young companions,” said the Master, “proud of being your link to your great ancestors, proud of having helped you move closer to the one who still has the mission of saving our people from despair and healing humanity of its illnesses. He was very near tonight. Everything was made ready for the unique moment. You were waiting for him and he was waiting for you. Yes, the Messiah too was waiting for the meeting. But on my way here, a few steps before reaching you, I heard a child cry in a hut near the edge of the forest. His cries were heartbreaking. His mother had probably gone to fetch wood for the hearth, or milk. So, brothers and friends, I couldn’t help opening the door to the hut, stepping inside, looking at the baby in his shabby cradle, singing a lullaby for him and consoling him. Do you understand? When a child cries like this, the Messiah can and mus
t wait.”

  And I, in the arms of my grandfather, cried, but he knew it was out of love.

  Was it the third day or the thirtieth? Like any man doomed to despair, Shaltiel has lost all sense of time. Ever since his blindfold was removed, he knows where he is and why, but he doesn’t know how long death will wait before snatching him away from the living. Oddly, he wishes he could look at himself in the mirror. Has his beard turned white? Does he look like his grandfather? He notices that the lamp hanging from the sooty ceiling is swaying. Will it crash to the floor with a deafening noise that could alert a vigilant pedestrian in the street?

  The Italian speaks to him gently. He’s cajoling.

  “Don’t blame us. You’re really a victim of chance, not of us. You happened to be crossing our path at the wrong time. We had to take someone hostage. It could have been some other stranger, some other passerby. A young Protestant or an elderly Catholic. If you’d stayed at the library another hour, or at home, you would be with your family right now, listening to the news on television. A charming anchorwoman would be announcing the latest bulletin: Terrorists have just abducted … someone else. You’d be getting clever analyses from pundits. So far, the police are unable to determine whether this is a political act or a criminal one. Oh, if only you had taken a taxi home. You know, I find you kind of likable, my friend.”

  “You’re my torturer and I’m your prisoner. Will these always be our roles? I didn’t choose my role.”

  “I did,” says Luigi, after a pause.

  Shaltiel realizes the absurdity of the situation. He’s going to die, and here he is, taking an interest in his enemy’s inner life.

  “Did you really decide to hurt me, to torture me? I don’t believe you.”

  “Yet it’s the truth.”