Always the Jews have been going down.
And, sometimes, the Jews have also returned.
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This essay is Chapter 6 in Stephen Schecter’s novel, “Not All Stories Are True,” which he is currently serializing on his Substack.
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Always the Jews have been going down.
Abraham went down to Egypt and so did his grandson. Abraham also went to Gerar and so did his son. His wife settled in Hebron and died there, and there Abraham bought a field to bury her in.
Sometimes the Jews have also returned. Joseph brought his father’s bones to Hebron after he died in Egypt, and the children of Israel brought Joseph’s bones back after their exodus.
For 3,000 years, Jews lived in Hebron until one day, in 1929, the Arabs went on a rampage. They killed 67 Jews and injured many others. The Mufti of Jerusalem had summoned his Arab brethren to protect the Al-Aqsa Mosque from being defiled. No Jew had gone near the Al-Aqsa Mosque, certainly no Hebron Jew, but the Mufti wanted to intimidate the British and the Jews, and murder was his favorite weapon.
The British responded by evacuating the remaining Jews of Hebron to Jerusalem. After 1967 the Jews returned to Hebron. Six hundred, maybe 800, now live there. The living not only bury the dead; they tend them.
Martin and Assaf went down to Hebron. They sat in an office under a ceiling fan, ate sweets, and drank endless glasses of tea served on a brass tray with hammered motifs of birds and fishes. They sat on a sofa and the man opposite them sat on a sofa. He and Assaf talked business.
“We can get excellent prices,” the Arab said.
“How much would cement cost a ton?”
“Don’t worry about the unit costs. We have a different way of calculating, but I assure you it would be cheaper than anything you could get on your own, in Israel or here.”
“How do you expect me to make a decision without figures?”
“Of course we have figures. We will have figures. No one runs a business without cash and cash means figures. But look first at the big picture. It will be the first regional mall in the Palestinian Authority. Over 37,000 square meters (400,000 square feet). High-end stores. You know, Mr. Pizmon, there are a lot of wealthy people here. They don’t like to talk about it too much, but we have money flowing through the West Bank crying for an outlet.”
“You mean money from abroad. But how widely is it spread? Shopping malls are one of the most democratic institutions in the world.”
“We have a large diaspora. Just like you Jews. And we also believe in trickle-down economics.”
“Have you done a market study?”
“Mr. Pizmon, it is impossible to do a market study under current conditions. There is an occupation going on, despite the Oslo agreements. We don’t need market studies. We need hope. Courage.”
“You mean gambling.”
“What gambling? I’m not talking about a casino in Jericho. We need to show people that the ‘new Middle East’ your prime minister talked about is not a pipe dream. What better way than a joint venture?”
“I’m still not clear what you need me for. You have, as you say, access to material cheaper than I can supply. You have an abundant labor supply. You have qualified engineers. What’s missing?”
“Capital and cachet, to put it simply.”
“What about your government? With all that foreign aid, you’d think this is a project right up their alley.”
“Our government — how shall I say? — is in many ways a drain on capital, rather than a source. As a businessman, I’m sure you can understand.”
“You mean they tax everything. Very creatively.”
The man opposite spread his hands and smiled. He then smoothed his mustache, barely sighed.
“Creatively is a very good word. Very well spoken. Have some more tea.”
He gestured to both of them.
“I will be frank with you, Mr. Pizmon. To build here I need permits. Permits can cost more than cement, more than electrical wire, more than copper pipes. And it is not certain the permits will come, come in the proper order, come at the promised time. An Israeli partner would help matters along. Ensure reliability. No market can run without reliability. Not even ours.”
“Yes,” Assaf said. “I can certainly see that. Well, Mr. Rashid, I shall have to think about it. Now why don’t you give us a tour of the prospective site?”
Mr. Rashid was more than pleased. He took Assaf and Martin in his jeep and drove to a street at the eastern end of the downtown. On the way they passed the small Jewish quarter. Clothes hanging on lines, women skirted to the ankle, boys with ear locks. And soldiers with rifles raised.
When the jeep came to a halt, even Martin looked confused. They were looking at a street that made the Jewish quarter seem like model housekeeping. Pockmarked houses stood every which way at crazy angles. The cars in the street were run-down vintage. Young men lounged about in t-shirts and camouflage pants. Women in full-length black dresses and headscarves stayed indoors.
There was the odd store. Food. Clothes. Bikes and motorbikes. If rust had an odor, the place would smell rust.
“This is it?” Assaf asked.
“This is it,” his prospective partner said. “Four blocks in every direction.”
“No wonder you need permits.”
“We also need urban renewal. People will be upset, of course. But there will be jobs. And money. And relocation. So you see, it is an expensive proposition nonetheless.”
“It’s always an expensive proposition, Mr. Rashid. Even on virgin land.”
Assaf could tell Martin had had enough. So had he. He asked his host to take them back. They had to return to Jerusalem.
They did.
They climbed the starry sky to the city of God atop the Judean hills. They passed Gush Etzion, where Jordanian forces massacred two hundred and fifty Jewish soldiers and civilians in 1948. The lights shone from their windows like yearlong Hanukkah menorahs.
This reincarnation of past settlements was attempt number four and had lasted longer than any of the previous ones, victims of Arab pogroms that the history books called riots. The riots of 1929. The riots of 1936. But riots, like pogroms, need permits. Permits and inspiration.
“So,” Assaf asked, “what do you think?”
“I’m not a businessman,” said Martin, “but I wouldn’t do business with them.”
“Them?”
“Rashid and all the people behind him. Permits, I believe, are a polite way of saying bribes.”
“You need permits in Israel too. And bribes are not unknown in the holy land.”
“So we read every day in the newspapers. But is that a reason to get deeper into the practice? What starts with bribes ends with bombs. Believe me, all those permits your capital is going to fund will wind up as detonated body parts in Jerusalem.”
“So why is the government collecting taxes for the Palestinian Authority?”
“Beats me. The new Middle East is just like the old Middle East. And the new Jew is often still very much the old Jew. I believe it is called the return of the repressed.”
“You exaggerate, Martin. Israel looks much more like America than the shtetl or the casbah.”
“You know what it says in the Ethics of the Fathers. Don’t look at the bottle, but at what’s in it, for there are new bottles full of old wine and old bottles which do not even have new wine in them. For two thousand years, from Sura to Vienna, Jews were used to bribing their way through life. Did we return home to keep on doing that?”
“You really are a Zionist,” Assaf looked at him amazed.
“Of course I’m a Zionist. I wasn’t born in Israel. I learned Jewish history in Philadelphia.”
“And so?”
“And so I learned that we bribed our way into European countries and cities, and once there we bribed for protection, and when they expelled us we bribed our way back, but when push came to shove we couldn’t bribe our way out. And it wasn’t any different in Muslim lands. I don’t like bribes and I don’t like neighbors who do. Palestinians bribe the way they lie. They do it so much they don’t even think it’s lying. The biggest lie is they want a state. And we believe there is something we can do to help them get it. So we too start lying. The peace process. The new Middle East. But Israeli soldiers have to stay in Palestinian Hebron to protect the Jews who live there. And on a beautiful night we can’t stop the car to pee because we might be shot.”
“You have to pee?
“All that tea.”
“You didn’t have to drink it.”
“I didn’t have to eat the cakes either. But you know Arab hospitality, and I didn’t want to embarrass you. Anyway, it’s easier to drink tea than sign a business contract. And as long as you’re drinking you’re not signing.”
“Maybe you are a businessman.”
“Only a consultant who’s free with his advice, and the advice comes from history books, not business manuals.”
“Still, I should put you on my books. It could help with your purchase of an apartment. Have you thought about it?”
“I’m still thinking.”
They had reached the outskirts of Jerusalem. Assaf pulled the car over. And the two of them got out of the car to empty their bladders of tea by the side of the Hebron road.
In the distance they could see the walls of the Old City. Above them were the heavens into which famous people had once ascended by chariot, horse and sheer divine aspiration. Assaf looked over at Martin and wondered if Elijah might not have looked like that, the blond hair excepted of course, as he stood and relieved himself before the great confrontation with the priests of Baal.
Just then Martin looked at him and smiled, and Assaf felt the first, faint stirrings of love. The feeling surprised him. He kept the surprise to himself. Fifteen minutes later he deposited Martin at his place.
“Next time,” Martin said in parting, “take me to a Jewish town.”
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Beautiful work; thank you.
Insightful and beautifully written.