The Masada Faktor (5 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

O
ne day, instead of Hebrew class, I took the train to the most northern Israeli city, Nahariya, population 50,000. Never mind that it is twenty-two miles from Haifa; it took me two hours to get here. I got lost walking to Bat Galim train station from Hamagenin in Haifa.

I had discovered that by taking the trains and local buses it was as good as taking any formal tour. I could spend a whole day on the Israel Railway going up and down the coast. There was air conditioning, Wi-Fi, electricity for charging my phone, and endless opportunities to people watch. The friendliness of Israelis was boundless. And I felt completely safe, especially with all the Israeli Defense Force traveling with their weapons.

Nahariya was beautiful but extremely close to the border of Lebanon. I thought, Wow, I found my Sea. I could get a little dog here, buy a traveling van, and send for my bicycle. This is truly a beach town and incredibly affordable. I liked the indoor outdoor market surrounding the train station. And the Sea was walking distance from there. Good places to eat, friendly people.

There was a beautiful country club with an Olympic size swimming pool that overlooked the Sea. I stopped in to take a tour and began to speak with the receptionist. She was English speaking, her name was Vered and we immediately hit it off. After showing me around the club, she invited me into the office.

An employee of the swim club entered the office and began loudly complaining to her in Hebrew. They both started to yell and clearly were arguing about something. I was sitting there feeling uncomfortable, trying to figure out an exit plan in case workplace violence erupted right in front of me.

When he finally left, Vered told me he was a nasty person and angry with a co-worker. She had a very serious look on her face and our fun had ended. I said goodbye, thanking her for her hospitality.

By this time, I knew I wasn’t going to stay in Haifa but I was unsure about moving so close to Lebanon. There had already been two wars with Lebanon and rockets from there dated back to 1967, prior to the Six Day War. I would have to think about this and compare it to other locations.

I googled Nahariya on my smart phone and learned that on September 9, 2001 there had been a terrorist attack here. I didn’t remember reading or hearing about that at the time. Of course, it was two days prior to 9/11 and I was in the United States. The Nahariya railway station bombing was a suicide bombing. This one had been executed by Hamas during the Second Intifada. Killed were three young Israeli soldiers and ninety-four others were wounded. The bomber left two wives and six children.

There was a day that I decided to see as many locations of suicide bombings in Haifa that I could visit. I had been told by a local Anglo friend, who had been living in Haifa for the last thirty years that 2002 through 2004 were particularly horrible years.

The Matza gas station and restaurant bombing was on March 31, 2002. A Hamas suicide bomber blew himself up and killed sixteen, injured forty. Two whole families were killed. This was close to the Grand Canyon Shopping Center so I did a little shopping and also saw the location of mass murder.

The Moriah Street bus bomb attack on March 5, 2003 was extremely bad. This was bus #37, the same number that I took to go to my doctor’s office and to visit some friends in Haifa. Fifteen were dead and fifty wounded when the bomb exploded and tore off the roof of the bus. People on the street were also hurt. Body parts were flying and the street ran red with blood.

It’s eerie to go to the exact spot of a place that has been exploded and imagine what the people saw and felt on a day when they were going about their usual business. So there I stood.

From there I went to the beach to see the Maxim Restaurant which had been rebuilt after a female suicide bomber attacked on October 4, 2003. Twenty-one were killed, fifty-one injured. Families and babies. This place was frequented by both Arab and Jews. Was this another wonderful example of the coexistence that is part of Haifa’s claim to fame?

Those groups that claim responsibility for mass murders were lunatics and it didn’t matter to me which group of lunatics it was. Their thirst for death and blood were much like vampires. The more blood they spill, the more zest they have. I didn’t get very far in my quest to see all the suicide bomb locations in Haifa. What’s that old saying? Once you’ve seen one you have seen them all.

CHAPTER NINE

I
had been waiting for the Wi-Fi service to be installed, which I had ordered before my laptop broke. Since I was expecting my laptop any day, I didn’t cancel the service appointment.

One morning, an angry guy zoomed up on a motorcycle shouting, “I don’t speak English.” So I answered in the same manner. “And I don’t speak Hebrew.”

How handsome this young dark Israeli wearing a Jewish star necklace was. I grabbed my necklace and motioned to it with my other hand. “We are both Jews, please help me!

He got on the phone and started berating someone before he began his inspection of my cottage. More hollering in my direction, “You have router?”

Shaking my head I said, “No,
lo
!”

Eventually, he found a panel on the wall that had been painted over, unscrewed it, and pulled out a handful of wires. At that point he went outside, came back, called someone again, and began speaking to me in perfect English, “Someone is bringing a router. I am going somewhere, and don’t touch anything!”

He roared off on his motorcycle. Fifteen minutes later he was back. I went to the door and with a nice smile on his face he said, “Thank you,” and then he got to work.

The weather was beginning to get awfully hot in Haifa. I felt like I was losing track of time, which felt distorted in Israel, anyway. One day could feel like a week. Everything was stretched out. If I wouldn’t have looked at a calendar I don’t think I could have estimated how long I had been living in Haifa.

I had wandered all through most of the areas that were safe for me to go and one morning I woke up to fog. I walked down the hills to the Haifa Port following the fog horns. Was I really hearing them, or were they auditory hallucinations? It could have been that I was merely homesick thinking about San Francisco and the cool breezes there.

Taking photos of ships at the end of the long driveway leading to the Port, I was abruptly detained by a uniformed man. He wanted my camera. I was surprised and asked him why. He said in English that he must delete the photos that I had taken. But since the viewing screen was cracked, he couldn’t see what they were. I couldn’t lose the camera, not that it was worth much money but the photos were important.

Eventually, after I showed my Israeli I.D., we agreed that he could delete the last ten photos and then he let me go with a warning. He was actually quite charming in an authoritative way. I left there smiling.

I walked by the Dagon Grain Museum which highlights the different ways grain was cultivated and processed before modern times but it was closed. It was an interesting structure and I made some notes as to using it as a setting in the book.

From there I walked all the way down to Dado Beach and spent several hours walking in the surf. I had brought the mourners
Kaddish
prayer to say for Mother, even though it wasn’t the actual designated day for it.

I had woken up wanting to say
Kaddish
. I walked into the Sea and said the prayer in Hebrew, placed the paper in the salt water and watched it disintegrate. I thought about salty tears and salty water and the connection between the two.

I was resolved to go back to Tel Aviv the next day to see if the laptop was ready. On the way to Merkas HaShmona Railway Station I passed The Greek Melkite Catholic Parish Cemetery. It was old and overgrown with weeds, broken concrete, tilted headstones, and mausoleums. I went through the crooked, open gate and walked around.

I saw an old Arab walking toward me. As he got closer, I realized he was not so old. At first I thought so since he was dressed in what’s known in the Middle East as a
thawb
, an ankle length white shirt. On his head was a large square of white cotton, called a
ghutra
, folded in a diagonal way with a cord, the
igaal
, around it. He was also wearing a full-length dark outer cloak, called a
bisht
, which looked like wool despite the already searing heat.

He was smoking a cigarette. For some inexplicable reason I noticed that it was a Marlboro. He approached me and got quite close to my face. I smelled cumin on him mixed with body odor. He had blue eyes. In halting English he said, “Do not be afraid. I have a message for you. When you are in Tel Aviv, you will be approached by a friend, do not resist.”

“Who are you? How do you know I am headed for Tel Aviv?” At that moment a crow behind me cawed, and I jumped and turned to look at it. When I turned back around the Arab was gone. The Marlboro cigarette butt was on the ground, still smoldering.