Perhaps it was the champagne. He had been sipping a little all evening to calm his nerves, even though he knew it was not a good idea. As an ironclad rule, he never drank anything stronger than Coke before a concert. He might take a Miltown or a phenobarb if he was especially nervous. But it was too late for that.
Now that he was slightly boozy, he wondered if he hadn’t been sabotaging himself. For he would soon have to enter the bedroom of the sexiest girl he had ever known, who had waited all her life for this moment.
There were “his” and “hers” bathrooms in the bridal suite. As Danny brushed his teeth (long and slowly), he looked in the mirror and saw the face of a frightened adolescent.
Could he go through with it? Of course, he told himself. Come on, don’t make a big deal out of all this. Besides, she’s a virgin. Even if you’re not at your very best, how could she know?
Danny looked at himself again. And his own expression told him that he couldn’t walk into the bedroom and face Maria.
Not alone, anyway.
He unzipped a pocket in his toilet kit and stood half-a-dozen small bottles of pills on the shelf above the sink. They ranged in effect, as he’d often joked to himself, from largo e pianissimo (tranquilizers) to allegro e presto (stimulants for when he was tired from a long flight).
Thank God for medical science, he thought, reaching for a jar marked “Meth.” He poured one into his sweaty left palm, closed the cap, and returned the pharmacopoeia to its hiding place.
A playful voice called from the bedroom, “Danny, are you still here, or have I been abandoned on my wedding night?”
“I’ll be right with you, darling,” he replied, hoping his tone had not betrayed any nervousness.
He crushed the tablet in his palm in hopes of speeding its effectiveness, and swallowed it with a glass of water.
Almost instantly his mood lightened. Though his heart beat faster, it was no longer with fear. He put on his robe and started slowly toward the bedroom.
She was waiting for him, her face beaming.
“Oh, Danny,” she said tenderly, “I know we’re going to be so happy together.”
“I know it too, darling,” he replied, and climbed in beside her.
Until that moment, Danny Rossi had never given a performance, either musical or otherwise, that was not impassioned and flawless. That night was no exception.
But it had been very, very close.
Fanny and Jason were now too excited to rely on letters. Their feelings were so intense that they had to express them through the more dynamic medium of the telephone. What started as a weekly ritual soon became almost a daily one. The bills were astronomical.
“It would be cheaper if one of us flew over to be with the other,” he remarked.
“I agree, Jason. But you can’t take your exams here and I can’t take mine there. So if you can control yourself for another few months, we’ll be together so long you’ll get tired of me.”
“I’ll never get tired of you.”
“That’s what they all say,” she joked. “I sometimes wish we were just living together and not having to go through all this ceremony business.”
“Fanny, you’re going to live in Boston. This is still a puritan town. Besides, I want to sign you to a lifetime contract so there’s no possible chance of your getting away.”
“I like the sound of that,” she replied.
The wedding would be in July at her family’s church in Groningen. Since Fanny had planned to visit Eva again that summer, it was decided that she would go in late spring—as soon as she had qualified.
On May 15 she called Jason to say, “Goodbye for three weeks.” Since her “sister” Eva’s kibbutz in the Galilee was a pretty spartan establishment, communication would be all but impossible.
“I think they’ve got about three phones in the whole place,” Fanny remarked. “So I don’t think they’d appreciate our babbling all the time. Do you think you can bear not speaking for twenty-one days?”
“No,” said Jason.
“Then think about meeting me in Israel as soon as your last exam is over. It’s about time you saw the land of your forefathers, anyway.”
“I just may, if I grow desperate enough,” he replied. “Hey—I almost forgot to ask you, how did your orals go?”
“Fine,” she replied modestly.
“Then you’re a real doctor. Congratulations! Why aren’t you excited?”
“Because,” she replied with affection, “I’m about to become something a lot more important—your wife.”
Those words were burned in fire in the memory of Jason Gilbert. For they were the last he ever heard spoken by Fanny van der Post.
Ten days later, he was awakened at 6:00 A.M. by a phone call from Amsterdam. It was her brother, Anton.
“Jason,” he said, his voice quavering, “I’m afraid I’ve some terrible news about Fanny.”
“Has she been in an accident?”
“Yes. Well, not exactly. She’s been killed.”
Jason sat up, his heart pounding frantically.
“How? What happened?”
“I don’t know all the details,” he stammered. “Eva just called and said that there was a terrorist attack. Their kibbutz is very close to the border. Apparently some Arabs crossed over in the night and threw hand grenades into the children’s dormitory. Fanny was seeing to a sick little girl and—” He broke down and sobbed.
At first Jason was numb. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured to himself. “I just can’t believe this is really happening.”
In the twenty-six sheltered years of his life he had never known anything remotely resembling tragedy. And now it had struck him like a bullet in the soul.
“Eva says she was very brave, Jason. She threw herself on one of the grenades to protect the children.”
Jason did not know what to say. Or think. Or do. He sensed that at any time the tears would come. And the rage explode within him. Now he was simply frozen with shock. Then he realized that he had to say something to her brother.
“Anton,” he whispered, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“We are sorry for you, too, Jason,” he replied. “You and Fanny loved each other so much.”
He then added in a voice that was barely audible, “We thought you might like to come to the funeral.”
The funeral. Oh God, the thought of it brought a dull ache. Yet another harsh fact to make him understand that Fanny was really dead. That he would never hear her voice again. Never see her alive.
But he had been asked a question. Did he wish to attend the ceremony in which the body of his beloved would be lowered into the ground and covered with earth?
“Yes, Anton. Yes, of course,” he replied, his voice as weak as a reed in the wind. “When’s the service?”
“Well, it was to be as soon as we could all get there. But, of course, if you’re coming we’ll wait for you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jason. “Isn’t the funeral in Holland?”
“No,” Anton replied. “The family has had other thoughts. You know we’re quite religious and have very strong ties with the Bible and the Holy Land. Since Fanny died … where she did … we thought she should be buried in the Protestant cemetery in Jerusalem.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe that’s too long a journey for you,” Anton said gently.
“Don’t be silly,” Jason answered quietly. “I’m going to call the airlines as soon as they open and get the first plane out. I’ll call you back and let you know when I’ll be arriving.”
Ever since he had first met Fanny, he had kept his passport near him should the need to see her become unbearable. So all he had to do was pack a suitcase, find a flight, and go.
He had an exam that morning for which he had done weeks of preparation, and since his flight to Israel left Idlewild that evening, he could have taken it.
But nothing mattered anymore. He didn’t give a damn about anything.
&nb
sp; He went to a travel agent in the Square, got his ticket, and spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly around Cambridge The sun was shining, and students, laughing happily, were heading toward the riverside to picnic.
Their laughter put him in a silent rage. How can they smile and walk the streets as if life is just the same as it was yesterday? How can the goddamn sun dare shine so brightly? The whole damn world should stop and weep.
At four he flew from Boston, transferred to Idlewild, and walked across the parkways to where El Al Airlines had their check-in. His parents met him there.
“Jason,” his mother cried, “this is so horrible.”
“Is there anything we can do?” his father asked.
“I don’t think so,” Jason answered distractedly.
A lithe young man with black curly hair, wearing a half-open shirt and carrying a walkie-talkie, came up to them and in a slightly accented voice asked, “Are you all three passengers?”
“No,” said Jason, “only me.”
“Then I’m afraid those other people have to go,” he said politely. “Only passengers allowed here. For security reasons.” This upset the elder Gilbert. “Look at this terminal,” he complained, as he reluctantly began to leave. “There are policemen everywhere, and at least a dozen types like that fellow. This must be the most dangerous airline in the world.”
Before Jason could respond, the security agent turned and addressed them. “Excuse me, but I think we are the safest airline in the world because we take the most precautions.”
“Do you always eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?” Jason’s father snapped.
“Only when I’m at work, sir. It’s part of the job.”
Unchastened, Mr. Gilbert turned to his son and said, “Promise me you’ll take an American airline back.”
“Dad, please, I’d be grateful if I could just be left alone.”
“Yes, son,” he said quietly. “Of course.”
They embraced their son and quickly left.
Jason sighed as he watched the two female security officials carefully empty the contents of his little overnight bag—three shirts, some underwear, two ties, a toilet kit—onto the bench and meticulously examine them. One even checked his tubes of toothpaste and shaving cream.
Finally they repacked it, far more neatly than he himself had done.
“Can I go now?” he asked, trying to suppress his impatience.
“Yes, sir,” replied the young woman, “right to that booth. For the body search.”
The flight was long and crowded. Children chased one another up and down the aisles. Old bearded men—and a few young bearded men—paced up and back as well, no doubt meditating on some vital point of the Talmud or a passage in the Prophets.
Inexplicably, Jason got up and walked with them. He wondered at the various faces that he saw among the passengers. Besides the stereotyped patriarchs straight from the pages of the Old Testament, there were tanned and muscular young men. He sensed that many of those open-shirted athletic types were security guards. There were also faces black as any Negro he had ever seen. (He learned later they were Yemenites.)
But what struck him most was that he also recognized himself. For here and there were blond and blue-eyed passengers conversing rapidly in Hebrew.
They were all different. Yet they were all Jews. And he was among them.
Fourteen hours later, when the pilot announced they were beginning their final approach to Tel Aviv airport, Jason perceived sobs among the people sitting near him. In fact, they were audible from many corners of the plane. And when they disembarked, walking across the tarmac past rows of heavily armed soldiers, he saw an old man bend and kiss the earth.
Jason noticed that the passengers felt such emotion at having arrived in this hot and muggy place that they could express it only by one of two extremes. Tears or laughter. He himself was too stunned to feel anything.
The customs officer who stamped his passport smiled and said, “Welcome home.”
Instinctively Jason replied, “I’m just a tourist, sir.”
“Yes,” said the officer, “but you’re a Jew. And you have come home.”
Having no baggage to pick up, he walked directly past customs to the sliding doors. They opened into an ecstatic mob of shouting people, greeting their arriving relatives in a babel of languages.
He stood on tiptoe and caught sight of Anton van der Post waiting off to the side with a fat, balding, middle-aged man. He hurried over to them.
The only conversation they could manage without crying was an exchange of platitudes.
“How was the flight?”
“Fine, Anton. How are your parents taking it?”
“All right, considering. Oh, this gentleman is Yossi Ron, the secretary of the kibbutz.”
Jason and the elder man shook hands.
“Shalom, Mr. Gilbert,” he said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.…”
He, too, was at a loss for words. They climbed silently into an old kibbutz truck and began to drive.
About an hour later they ascended a steep hill as the road bent to the right. Jerusalem came into view, its peach-white stone shimmering in the early morning sun.
Then Anton spoke for the first time in the entire journey. “We thought she would want to be buried with your ring, Jason. Is that all right?”
He nodded. And in a sudden rush of grief, his thoughts collided with the awful truth of what had brought him to this so-called holy place.
She was buried in a simple ceremony behind the towering trees of the Protestant cemetery on Emek Refaim.
A delegation had driven down from the kibbutz during the night and now were gathered at the graveside. They all were tanned and open-shirted. Jason felt slightly out-of-place in his dark suit and tie. Standing in the first row with his parents were Anton, his arm around his mother, and a short, dark-haired Israeli girl clinging to Mr. van der Post’s hand. Clearly, this must be Eva Goudsmit.
The faces of the Dutch visitors were etched with pain. The kibbutzniks wept openly at the loss of a friend.
But she was only that to them. They could never dream what Fanny had meant to Jason Gilbert. When they lowered the coffin into the grave, something inside him was buried with her.
His grief was too deep for tears.
As the service ended and the mourners began to leave, he and Eva were drawn instinctively to each other. No introductions were necessary.
“Fanny spoke of you often,” she said in a hoarse voice. “If anyone deserved a happy life it was she. I should have been the one to die in that explosion.”
“That’s the way I feel too,” Jason murmured. They continued walking, passed through the cemetery gate, and turned right. When they reached the Bethlehem Road he said, “I’d like to see where it happened.”
“You mean the kibbutz?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You can come back on the bus with us this afternoon.”
“No,” he replied, “I want to be with her family until they leave in the morning. I’ll rent a car and drive up to the Galilee on my own.”
“I’ll tell Yossi to make some arrangements for you. How long will you be staying?”
Jason Gilbert looked up as the rooftops of the Old City came into view, and answered, “I don’t know.”
At 5:00 A.M. the next day, Jason drove the three people who would have been his in-laws to their flight home.
Though they exchanged promises to keep in touch, both parties understood that there would be little, if any, contact. Because they had lost the person who linked their lives.
With a map spread out on the empty seat beside him, Jason proceeded northward. First along the Mediterranean coast, the blue sea on his left. Then east after Caesarea, through Nazareth, and across the Galilee until he reached the sea where two millennia ago Christ had walked upon the water. He then turned north again, the Jordan River on his right, through Kiryat Shmona.
By noon he reached the gates
of Vered Ha-Galil, drove in, and parked his car.
Except for the lush greenery and flowers, the place reminded him of a small army installation. For it was ringed with barbed wire. Only when he looked out over the Jordan did he feel a sense of its tranquility.
The kibbutz seemed deserted. He glanced at his watch and understood why. It was lunchtime. The dining room had to be in the single large structure standing at the edge of the bungalows.
Inside, there was a din of animated conversation. He scanned the tables and soon found Eva, dressed like everyone else, in a T-shirt and shorts.
“Hello, Jason,” she said softly. “Are you hungry?”
It was only then he realized that he hadn’t had anything since a cup of coffee in Jerusalem six hours earlier. The food was simple—home-grown vegetables, cheese, and leben, a kind of yoghurt.
Eva introduced him to the kibbutzniks sitting nearby, all of whom expressed a welcome tempered with condolences.
“I’d like to see where it happened,” Jason said.
“It’s siesta time now,” said Ruthie, one of the children’s counselors. “Can you wait till four?”
“I suppose so.”
After lunch Eva walked with him along rows of identical wooden huts toward the srif where he would be staying.
“You’ll be sleeping in Dov Levi’s bunk,” she remarked.
“Where’s he going to sleep?”
“Dov’s away on miluim—army-reserve duty. He’ll be gone another three weeks.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be staying that long.”
Eva looked up at him and asked, “Are you in a hurry to get back to something?”
“No,” he conceded, “not really.”
Jason kicked off his shoes, lay back on top of the creaky metal bed, and pondered the events of the past seventy-two hours.
Earlier that week he had been strolling the Harvard Law School campus in the company of his friends, his thoughts preoccupied with marriage, exams, his future political career. Now here he was alone in the so-called land of his forefathers with absolutely no meaning to his life.