A Lotus Grows in the Mud (28 page)

T
he swishing back and forth of the windshield wipers lulls me into a jet-lagged sleep. I half close my eyes and rest my head on the backseat of my chauffeur-driven car as it wends its way toward the holy city of Jerusalem. I am hypnotized by the ticking of the flapping metronome as it takes me deeper into the recesses of my mind. I see in the back of my mind a perfect picture of my beloved agent of fifteen years, Stan Kamen—the reason I am here.

Once so dashing, with a shock of dark hair, he’s almost bald from chemotherapy. He’s laughing as he tells me how funny he looks in the football helmet filled with ice that the doctor recommended to stop his hair from falling out. He is alive, happy and positive. He is the agent to the stars, adored by everyone, and he is now dying in the hospital.

My brain flickers back to the last time I spoke to him, more than a year ago. I’m standing at the stove, cooking breakfast for Kurt and the kids. My belly is swollen again, this time with Baby Wyatt.

The telephone rings.

“Hello, Goldie, it’s Stan.”

“Stan! It’s so good to hear you! How are you, honey?”

“I just called to say I love you, Goldie.”

His voice is soft and full of emotion. He sounds so weak.

“I love you too, Stan,” I reply, turning away from the stove and staring out the window. “I love you so much.”

I’m scared. I have never heard him like this before. He’s giving up.

“Stan, where are you?”

“In the hospital.”

His voice is barely audible. “Goldie, I want you to tell the children that I love them…” He can’t finish his sentence. He’s crying.

Oh my God, he is saying good-bye! Choking back tears, I blurt, “I’m coming to you, Stan. I’m coming right now.”

“No! Don’t…” His voice trails off. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Oh, Stan…what can I do for you? I’ll do anything.”

“Just be happy, Goldie. Be happy.” After a long pause, I hear surrender in his quiet tone. “I’m going to take a nap now.”

My chest tightens. I want to wail; I want to scream, Don’t go! Stay positive, and feel the love that will heal you. But nothing comes out. I am silenced by the truth. Almost gagging on my tears, I find just enough voice to say what I feared would be my last good-bye.

He died the next day.

“W
e’re almost there, Miss Hawn.”

My eyes pop open and my neck snaps to attention. How long have I been out?

“Is this your first trip to Jerusalem?” my driver asks.

“Yes, it is,” I say, trying to get my bearings. My baby is now six months old, and this is the first time I have been away from him. Hopelessly in love, I packed his dirty T-shirt in my suitcase to remind me of his scent. The only thing that could drag me away from Wyatt is my promise to Stan to help him realize his dream of opening a cinematheque in Tel Aviv. At the gala opening of the Stan Kamen Theater—an institute he set up to teach young people about cinema and give them a place to exchange creative ideas—I’ll have the privilege of cutting the ribbon. I’m also here to see something of Stan’s beloved Israel for myself.

In the front seat of my car sits my bodyguard, Shalom, a huge, barrel-chested man with a soft heart. He’s assigned to me for protection.
Protection from what? I wonder. Someone else has organized my schedule, a bit more demanding than I’d have liked, but, hey, I’m just drifting with the tide.

“Get ready,” Shalom tells me. “There will be a crowd of photographers waiting to shoot your first visit to the Wailing Wall.”

My heart sinks. I forgot about the photo ops. It would have been nice to experience my first visit to the holy city without such scrutiny, but I remind myself of the reason I’m here: to bring light and awareness to Stan’s dream. I wipe the spittle from the corners of my mouth and take out my makeup bag, with my face nicely tucked inside. I apply my base, eyes and blush. Suddenly, our car makes a hairpin turn up the hill, and I nearly poke my eye out with my mascara wand.

Looking out the window for the first time, I feel my heart starting to race as we make our last turn before reaching the sacred city I have only read about in the Bible. The closer I get to Jerusalem, sitting atop its hill, bathed in its own unique light, the more I wonder at the visceral palpitations I can feel.

Arriving at the wall, and seeing the paparazzi waiting, ready to shoot, I take a deep breath and put on my smiling face. I let Shalom open the door. The rain is now a light drizzle. I pull my scarf up to cover my head in respect, as the cameras fire off like toy pistols, clicking and flashing at breakneck speed. I can’t see a thing. Slowly, Shalom guides us through them.

The wall is enormous. Higher than I imagined, it was built from giant slabs of pale yellow stone, carved centuries before. I stop and take in its height and breadth.

Touching my shoulder, Shalom hands me a pen and a tiny piece of paper. “Here, Goldala,” he says, using the affectionate nickname he has given me. “The tradition is to write a prayer to someone you love, fold it and stick it between the bricks.”

I take his pen and paper, sit down on the steps and write my prayer: “Dear Stan, may you rest in the love and light of the Almighty.”

From deep within me, I can feel a great swell of emotion.

“Shalom, may I have another piece of paper? Can I write two prayers?”

He tears off another piece.

“Dear Daddy,” I write, “I miss you in every moment of my life. I pray that you will talk to God, and ask for more peace for the world. If anyone can do it…you can. I love you. Kink.”

At that moment, something strange happens. I can no longer hear the cacophony of cameras. I lose all sense of my original purpose. As if in a trance, I walk to the wall, folding my little pieces of paper until they are two small squares of love. I wedge them deep between the cracks of the giant limestone slabs at the base of the wall and hang my head in prayer.

All around me, I can hear the murmured words of those who have journeyed to this place of pilgrimage. They come to mourn the loss of Jerusalem. They come to pray for the restoration of their holiest of temples, bowing repeatedly, white prayer shawls draped around their shoulders, moving their lips quickly as they repeat passages from the Torah.

Droplets of rain trickle down my neck as I listen to the reverent murmurs.

Staring down at my feet, I realize I’m standing on the smooth stones of King Solomon’s Temple, a site where temple was built upon temple upon temple. I’m as close as I can be to the Holy of Holies, the temple’s most sacred chamber. Not far from here, a priest would have stood on the mount and blown his shofar, the ram’s-horn trumpet, to call the people to prayer.

White-hot roots seem to be growing from my toes, branching out, snaking through the cracks in the stones and deep into the soft earth beneath me, connecting me to some part of my past.

Overtaken with emotion, I rest my head on the wall and let go. The palms of my hands flat against the stones, my fingers hooked into the crevice where my notes are wedged, I cling to the wall, my shoulders shaking. The cold, wet wall absorbs my tears, as it has for so many others who have cried for their losses and their joy, connecting with God in such a holy place.

Shalom approaches cautiously, places his head beside mine and gently says, “Goldie, would you like to sit down?”

I peel my head from the wall and meet his tender eyes. Mascara streaming down my cheeks, I nod.

He takes my arm and leads me to the steps. We sit quietly.

“Why am I crying, Shalom? I didn’t expect this.”

Still staring at the wall, he says, “Many people cry here. I was once sitting right here next to a man who was also crying. I gave him my handkerchief. He blew his nose and said, ‘I’m not even Jewish. I’m a cabdriver in New York City. Why am I crying?’”

Shalom turns and looks at me. “We cry, Goldie,” he says, his own eyes filling. “We cry for many things.”

Suddenly, in the distance, from somewhere far across the Old City, I hear the chant of a muezzin calling the Islamic faithful to prayer. His lilting voice—guttural, deep in resonant beauty—floats out from the top of a tall minaret.

Simultaneously, the bells of a Christian church burst to life, clanging and chiming across the rooftops, and a group of Hasidic Jews descend the stairs behind me singing songs of devotion. All I can hear in my head is this perfect harmony of sounds: the muezzin’s glorious descant, the sonorous church bells at the core, and the prayers of the devout Jews providing the humming bass notes. It is the music of God. Of all our gods.

“This is the most beautiful symphony I have ever heard, Shalom.”

He listens and nods.

Somewhere inside me, I feel a heave from the pit of my stomach that connects right to the center of my heart. I think of the blood that has been shed in the name of God, of the centuries of conflict and hatred and misunderstanding. How it has seeped into this barren earth and tinted it red. No wonder I am crying.

Turning to Shalom, sitting quietly beside me, I ask, “Why must man insist that his faith is the best faith? Aren’t we all praying to the same hole in heaven?”

Shalom slips his handkerchief into the palm of my hand. He has no answer for me. He pauses, then looks at his watch. “It is time to go to Yad Vashem. They are waiting for you there. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” I turn to him and ask, “Will you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Well, whenever I visit a holy city I like to find a spiritual teacher and
sit with him. Is it possible to find someone I could meet with at the end of this day?”

Shalom smiles. “Yes, I know someone, a wonderful woman. I will call her and see if she can see you.”

He gives me his hand to pull me to my feet. I look up at this giant of a man and tell him, “You’re not just a guardian of the body, you know, Shalom.”

“I’m not?”

“No. You are also a guardian of the spirit.”

He throws his head back and laughs.

“Yes, Goldala, we need that too.”

“You can say that again.”

We share a moment of levity as we walk through the entrance of Yad Vashem. At this Museum of Tolerance on the Mount of Remembrance, the excruciating images of the sufferings of the Holocaust are beyond my worst imaginings. The lists and lists and lists of the dead. The cattle car that stands alone in the grounds, once used to herd unfortunates to the concentration camps.

Already spent, I walk through this living nightmare, taking in the unbearable images of torture and pain. I see photos of mothers singing to their children, distracting them, while they stand in line for the gas chamber. I pass a glass case filled with the tiny shoes of babies and children who died in those chambers of hell. I see too many photos of emaciated men and women, lying on their filthy cots, at the moment when the Allied forces told them that the war was over. Their faces are blank, devoid of any emotion—a haunting reminder of how the human spirit can die inside the living. Men who have nothing left to live for, who have lost everything, including their god.

Limp as a rag, I walk out of this world of sorrow. I feel helpless and filled with a sense of futility, knowing this kind of torture is still going on in other parts of the world. By now, my face is distorted and swollen from crying. No longer paying attention to the clatter of the photographers’ cameras, I let them click away. Who cares what I look like? How can I complain about anything in my life, ever again?

Shalom hands me a new hankie, and I blow my nose. Feeling weak, I say, “I think I need to eat something.” He takes me to the King David Hotel for a lunch of eggs, until I feel restored enough for my next port of call: a visit to the Israeli prime minister.

Taken to his office, I walk down a long hallway followed by my growing entourage. Secretaries peek out from their doorways to catch a glimpse of me. I wave and smile as I walk toward the big double doors at the end of the hall. Behind that door is a man who, I have been told, was a ruthless fighter in his youth, leading many battles against the Palestinians. He is considered by many a hero, and yet, by others, a terrorist.

The door opens magically, and Yitzhak Shamir is sitting at his desk, nose buried in a document. He raises his head and jumps up to greet me. His hand reaching for mine, I am surprised to see that he is only five feet four inches tall. I take his proffered hand in both of mine. He leads me over to his sofa, and we both sit down.

Why am I here? I think. What am I supposed to talk to this man about? As the photographers motor their cameras, I realize that this is really only a photo opportunity. Nothing else. A setup. I am growing increasingly uncomfortable.

He turns to make polite chat, expecting perhaps some general questions about Israeli politics, or perhaps about more global issues relating to the relationship between Israel and America. But I am far more curious about his psychology.

“How do you sleep at night, Mr. Shamir?” I ask.

Caught completely off guard, he looks up at me with surprise in his eyes.

“I sleep pretty good,” he says, studying me with renewed interest. “It’s a tough job, you know.”