Wings of Refuge

  “I can’t go on, God,” she cried, knowing she should have done so three years earlier. “Please . . . please . . . help me!”

  * * *

  Hannah phoned Devorah that night. “I know you’ve been begging me for ages to come up and visit,” she said. “I was wondering if this weekend would be all right?”

  “Yes, of course! Please come!” Devorah’s voice revealed both surprise and pleasure. With Ben traveling so often in his work, Devorah and the children had moved back to the kibbutz in Galilee to be close to her family. “It just so happens that Ben will be home all weekend. He’ll be thrilled. And Rachel can play with her cousins . . . it will be wonderful!”

  From the first moment she arrived, Hannah was swallowed up in the warmth of family and memories, the relief of laughter and tears. She dropped her facade of unquestioning faith and strength and poured out her anger and hurt so that true healing could finally begin. Ben had no answers to her questions as they sat outside that evening beneath the sodden winter sky, but voicing them helped her. She slept better than she had for a long time.

  “Come for a ride with me,” Ben said after breakfast the next day. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  He borrowed a pickup truck from the kibbutz and they drove around the lake, the pale winter sun trying to peek through clouds that were as soft as dove’s wings. The wind had the breath of spring in it, the scent of new lambs and green grass. Galilee was beautiful this time of year, with the almond trees in full bloom and the hillsides speckled with scarlet anemones. Hannah was glad she had decided to leave the bleak, chilly city behind.

  But when she suddenly realized where Ben was taking her, Hannah’s heart went cold inside her. They had driven to the opposite shore of Galilee—to the Golan Heights.

  “I can’t do this, Ben,” she said. “I’m not ready.”

  He looked at her, his eyes tender, then back at the road. “Trust me.”

  She fell silent as they climbed up into the hills. But instead of taking the main road, which led up through the heights to Mount Hermon, Ben turned south, then east again onto a narrow rutted road that wound into barren territory. After several bumpy minutes, she saw a jeep parked along the road up ahead, a man waiting beside it. Ben stopped the truck and got out to greet him.

  “Hannah, I’d like you to meet Shmarya Gutmann . . . this is my cousin, Dr. Hannah Rahov.”

  “The archaeologist, yes,” Gutmann said, shaking her hand. “I have read your work.” He was a compact, muscular man in his midsixties with a cloudlike puff of white hair encircling his bald head. His knotted arm muscles and weathered face attested to years of physical labor, but his restless energy betrayed curiosity and a sharp mind. “I am what you might call a self-styled archaeologist,” he said, “although in real life I am only a simple farmer from Kibbutz Na’an.”

  “A simple farmer?” Ben repeated, laughing. “Before statehood, Shmarya worked in military intelligence. He headed a top-secret unit of the Haganah.”

  Hannah knew that the Haganah was a forerunner of Ben’s Agency. “Is that how you two met?” she asked.

  The older man’s eyes twinkled. “I met your cousin, the world-renowned agricultural consultant, when he came to my kibbutz to show us how to farm properly.”

  Ben laughed again. “Shmarya is the reason you and I are here instead of stuck in Iraq. He had a hand in the diplomatic negotiations that brought all of us Iraqi Jews to Israel twenty-five years ago. Although,” he added to Gutmann, “Hannah certainly wouldn’t have thanked you for it at the time!”

  She smiled, remembering how she had wept with homesickness. “That’s true, I wouldn’t have. But I am grateful now. You said you were interested in archaeology, Mr. Gutmann? Have you been on any digs?”

  “A few,” he said, with a modest shrug. “I was very fortunate to have been part of Yigael Yadin’s team at Masada. . . .”

  “Yes! I knew your name was familiar,” Hannah said. “You’re the one who found the famous inscribed pottery shards—the ones that were thought to be the lots drawn for the suicide pact. You are hardly an amateur archaeologist, Mr. Gutmann! You’ve worked with more famous people than I have—Sukenik, Avigad, Mazar . . .”

  “Tell her about your latest project,” Ben said.

  Hannah saw the excitement in Gutmann’s eyes.

  “After we won possession of the Golan Heights in 1967, I set out to find Gamla, the ‘Masada of the North.’”

  “Yes, of course, from Josephus’ accounts. And have you?”

  He grinned in triumph. “There!” he said, pointing to a place behind her. “Gamla—the camel!”

  Hannah turned around to gaze at a narrow-humped ridge of land that rose among the surrounding hills like the back of a resting camel.

  “See? Inaccessible ravines on three sides, just as Josephus described it,” Gutmann said proudly. “Take a walk down there and have a look for yourself. You’ll be able to find Roman arrowheads and catapult stones without searching too hard.”

  “That’s amazing! It certainly looks like the place Josephus described.”

  “I want to raise it from its ruins,” he said. “It has taken six years to come up with the funding, but I finally have enough financial support to start excavating this summer. I would love it if you would join us, Dr. Rahov.”

  Hannah didn’t reply. She continued to gaze in silence at the camel-backed hill and at the distant Sea of Galilee, barely visible beneath the lowering clouds.

  “Can you take us down and show us around?” Ben asked.

  “I’m sorry, I wish I could,” Gutmann replied, checking his wristwatch, “but I don’t have time today. Just follow that footpath. You can’t get lost. This narrow neck of land is the only way to get there—as the Romans themselves soon learned.”

  They talked for a few more minutes before Gutmann apologized again for having to leave. “Hope to see you this summer,” he said as he climbed into his jeep. Hannah felt the first few sprinkles of rain as he drove away. She turned toward Ben’s truck.

  “Wait,” Ben said, stopping her. “Let’s take a walk down there.”

  “But it’s starting to rain.”

  “We’ll get wet. So what? Please, Hannah.”

  She buttoned her raincoat and cinched the belt before following him down the narrow path. Gutmann was right—she could easily spot dozens of rounded catapult stones among the disordered ruins of tumbled foundations and fallen columns. Against her will, she felt a familiar prickle of excitement as she recalled Josephus’ account of the battle that had raged here. The desolate scene started springing to life in her mind’s eye. Ben led her all the way up the camel’s spine until the trail ended at the edge of a steep ravine.

  “Many of them fell to their deaths from here,” Hannah said, recalling the story. “Just like Masada, they preferred death to being captured by the Romans.” She shivered. The sprinkle had turned to a gentle rain, and drops of it sparkled in Ben’s hair and beard. “You didn’t make me walk all the way down here just to see the ruins, did you?” she said. He shook his head, then wrapped one arm tightly around her, pulling her close to his side.

  “That’s where Jake died,” he said softly, pointing. “On that ridge of land right over there. You can’t see the hollow where the ambush was waiting. And neither could he . . . until it was too late.”

  Tears welled in Hannah’s eyes and washed down her face along with the rain as they stared in silence. She licked her lips and tasted salt.

  “You know, Hannah, our government is being pressured by the international community to give the Golan Heights back to Syria.” He scrubbed his own eyes with his fist. “Jake died to defend this land, and they want to take it away from us. This dig at Gamla could prove that the Golan is ours, that it always has been ours. Your other digs proved that Jews once owned Jerusalem and the Negev, now do the same for the Golan Heights.”

  He gripped her shoulders and turned her toward him, forcing her to face him. “Find the proof, Hannah F
or Jacob’s sake.”

  * * *

  Hannah signed on for the excavation at Gamla, which began on June 27, 1976. She returned for a second season in 1977, and a third in 1978. Her student assistant, Ari Bazak, joined her, attracting hordes of smitten female volunteers to the remote site.

  “Hey, I want him for my assistant next year,” one of Hannah’s colleagues joked. “All you have to do is send Ari out to recruit volunteers and you’re overstocked.”

  “Please, take him,” Hannah said with a groan. “That boy is so busy chasing girls, I’m sure he’ll be too exhausted to work. My daughter, Rachel, has a terrible crush on him, too.”

  “Oh, Mama, he’s sooo gorgeous!” Rachel squealed after meeting Ari for the first time. “He’s like a movie star! And did you see how he kissed my hand when you introduced us—like I was royalty or something? He’s such a gentleman!”

  “Yes, Mr. Bazak certainly does know how to be charming, but I should warn you—”

  “He said I was beautiful!”

  “I heard him. That’s because you are.” At thirteen, Rachel was emerging from childhood with willowy grace and poise, a carbon copy of her handsome father in female form. Yet she was gentle and sweet-tempered, as completely unaffected by her own natural beauty as Jake had been.

  Rachel twirled in a happy circle before collapsing dramatically onto their sofa. “I’m in love, Mama!”

  “Get in line, sweetie,” Hannah mumbled.

  “What did you say, Mama?”

  “He’s much too old for you. You’re only thirteen, and Ari is a grown man.”

  “I’m not a little kid!” Rachel said indignantly. “And Abba was older than you were.”

  “Not ten years older. Only four.”

  Throughout the summer of 1978, Hannah watched helplessly as Rachel threw herself at Ari Bazak, following him around the excavation at Gamla like a love-sick puppy, turning up under his feet with every step he took. The boldness of Rachel’s pursuit reminded Hannah of her own pursuit of Jake, but Ari was a very different person from her husband. While Jake had been naturally shy, Ari was the opposite—talkative, charming, and relentlessly flirtatious. He wasn’t offended at all by Rachel’s fan-club style of adoration but seemed mildly entertained by it—even though his many girlfriends weren’t.

  “He’s very patient with her,” one of Hannah’s colleagues said after observing how Rachel shadowed him all day.

  “Yes, he is,” Hannah sighed. “I’m afraid it’s only because she’s my daughter and Ari wants good grades. If he would just get annoyed and shoo her away once or twice, maybe we would all have a little peace and quiet.” She told Ari as much the next day after she had to punish Rachel for practically sitting on his lap while he tried to eat. “You have my permission to do whatever it takes to get rid of her, Ari.”

  “Aw, she’s just a little kid, Hannah. She really doesn’t bother me. It must be pretty lonely for her being stuck way out here all summer with no other kids her age.”

  “Believe me, she doesn’t think of herself as a child. In her mind she’s the same age as all these college girls.”

  A few days later, instead of sitting around with Ari and the others after dark, Rachel made a big show of being sleepy and went to bed early. Hannah worked on reports in the field office for another hour or so before joining her in their tent. Rachel was tucked deep inside her sleeping bag and never stirred as Hannah came inside and yanked off her boots. She was about to set them by the tent door beside Rachel’s boots, when she noticed that Rachel’s boots were missing. She looked again at her daughter’s sleeping form. There was something very odd about the way Rachel was hunched into a ball on her cot. Hannah peered inside Rachel’s sleeping bag and found pillows.

  Hannah shoved her feet back into her boots and grabbed her flashlight. The first place to look would be wherever Ari was. She hurried across the compound to where the college students sat around a folding table, playing a game of cards by lantern light.

  “I’m looking for Ari. Have any of you seen him?”

  “Ari? Gosh, he was here earlier, Dr. Rahov, but I guess he left.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “I can take an educated guess where he might be,” one of them answered mischievously. “Let’s see . . . who else is missing?”

  Everyone laughed but, Hannah. She felt sick inside. Surely Ari had more sense than to play his games with a thirteen-year-old!

  “Hey, Deanna is gone,” one of the girls said suddenly.

  “Who?”

  “The new girl. You know, ‘Miss America’ from New York University? Ari was flirting with her all day.”

  Hannah felt only mildly relieved. “Excuse an old woman’s ignorance, but where might two people go on a ‘date’ around here?”

  “Oh, Ari has several favorite spots,” another girl said, slamming her handful of cards down on the folding table.

  Hannah judged from her sarcastic tone that she had been jilted by him earlier in the summer.

  “Try the synagogue ruins first,” she added.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” She tossed her hair off her shoulders with a shake of her head.

  “Ooo, sacrilege!” someone murmured.

  “Is he in trouble, Dr. Rahov?”

  “No, dear, I just need to ask him something.”

  “Do you want us to help you look for him?” the jilted one asked. Her voice was maliciously sweet.

  “Yeah, we’ll help you look, Dr. Rahov.”

  “Better make lots of noise so they’ll know you’re coming.” Their comments were interspersed with giggles and laughter.

  Hannah didn’t relish a treacherous walk down the footpath to the ruined synagogue in the dark. She was trying to decide whether it was a good idea to let the students help her or not when she saw bobbing lights approaching up the hill and heard a loud voice—a distinctly American voice—telling someone off in a continuous tirade.

  “For two cents I’d like to wring your miserable head right off your scrawny little neck! You’ve got a lot of nerve, you little sneak! I hope you get grounded for a week—for the summer . . . no, for the rest of your life!”

  As the lights drew closer, Hannah was relieved to see the American girl dragging Rachel up the hill by the scruff of her neck. Ari trailed a few paces behind them.

  “Just wait until I tell your mother what you did, you rotten little snoop!” she continued. “I hope she beats the tar out of you.”

  When she saw Hannah and the others, she pushed Rachel forward into the light. Hannah stared at her daughter and couldn’t believe her eyes. Rachel was smirking!

  “What’s going on?” Hannah asked.

  Ari couldn’t answer. He was chewing his lips to pieces, trying not to laugh and make Miss America even more upset than she already was. But he didn’t need to answer. Miss America answered for him.

  “You’d better teach your snoopy little daughter a lesson or two about privacy, Dr. Rahov.” She held up Rachel’s pocket camera, waving it by the strap. “She must have eavesdropped on Ari and me this afternoon and decided to follow us! We thought we were all alone! We didn’t know she was listening and watching our every move until she just popped up out of nowhere with her little flash camera, right when we were—” She stopped, shocked to discover that in her anger she was about to reveal far too much.

  “Just when you were what?” Ari’s former dream-girl asked sweetly.

  When everyone hooted with laughter, Ari blushed clear to the roots of his beard. Horrified, Miss America thrust the camera into his hands and stormed into her tent.

  “Well,” Rachel said smartly, dusting off her hands, “that takes care of her.”

  Hannah’s jaw dropped. “Rachel! Into our tent! Now!” She was astounded to see her daughter saunter away with a spring in her step. Hannah turned to Ari, who had stepped out of the circle of lantern light and was carefully backing away.

  “Here.” He handed the camera to Hannah li
ke a hot potato.

  “Ari, I am so sorry.”

  “No harm done.”

  “I’d like to promise you that it won’t happen again, but—”

  “It’s okay, Hannah. I’ll smooth things over with Deanna. Don’t worry.”

  “Believe me, it’s not you or Deanna that I’m worried about.” She turned to go, then turned back. “Oh, and Ari?”

  “Yeah?”

  “In the future . . . please . . . not in the synagogue.”

  By the time Hannah returned to her tent, Rachel had tossed all the pillows onto the floor and had snuggled beneath the covers in their place. Hannah sighed. “I know you aren’t asleep, Rachel. We need to talk about your behavior.”

  Rachel rolled over to face her. She looked up at her mother in a perfect imitation of an innocent little girl, her dark eyes shining in the moonlight. “Yes, Mama?”

  Hannah prayed for patience. “I know Mr. Bazak laughed it off—”

  “He lets me call him Ari.”

  “—but I’m not laughing, Rachel. Stay away from him. Leave him alone. Do you understand me? If you don’t stop—if there are any more incidents like this one—I’ll have to send you to Aunt Devorah’s kibbutz to stay with your cousins for the rest of the summer.”

  “No, Mama! Please don’t send me there!”

  “Then will you promise me that you’ll behave from now on? That you’ll leave Ari and his girlfriends alone?”

  “You don’t understand, Mama!” Rachel sat up, gravely serious. With all the passion of a heartsick thirteen-year-old, she said, “I’m in love with Ari! I’m going to marry him someday!”

  “Listen, Rachel—”

  “But I am, Mama!”

  “Sweetie . . .” Hannah stopped, recognizing her own youthful stubbornness in the set of Rachel’s chin. There was nothing she could say to change her daughter’s mind. Time and other-fish-in-the-sea were the only known cures for puppy love.