The Book of Trees
LEANNE LIEBERMAN
THE
B
OOK
OF
T
REES
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright ©
2010
Leanne Lieberman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Lieberman, Leanne,
1974
-
The book of trees / written by Leanne Lieberman.
Issued also in an electronic format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-265-1
I. Title.
PS
8623.I36
B
66 2010
JC
813'.6
C
2010-903598-4
First published in the United States,
2010
Library of Congress Control Number
:
2010929059
Summary
: When Mia goes to Israel, she gets a crash course in the history of the Jews in Palestine and starts to question her Zionist aspirations.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book
on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover artwork by Janice Kun
Typesetting by Nadja Penaluna
Author photo by Bernard Clark
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13 12 11 10 • 4 3 2 1
For Rob
That which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor.
This is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary,
go and learn it.
—Hillel
CONTENTS
M
y first morning in Israel, the guttural wail of the Muslim call to prayer jolted me awake. I sat up in bed and tried to swipe the furry feeling off my teeth with my tongue. My fingers fumbled for my water bottle. Again the call came, so plaintive it made me think of hunger and lost dogs.
My roommate, Aviva, rolled over, mumbled “barbarians” and pulled her sheet over her face. Light bulldozed through the window. I wanted to turn over and sleep some more, but I also needed to explore that sound. I rubbed the heel of my hand across my face. Jet lag made the nerves behind my eyes feel like taut elastic bands.
Aviva and I had arrived in the dark the night before, and I’d dozed in the car from the airport. I remembered seeing the highway lights, and when the road climbed to Jerusalem, I thought of the word
l’aalot
: to go up, as in, up to God.
Our dorm room had two metal beds separated by a desk, two wooden chairs, a closet and a sink. The bathroom and a small kitchen were down the hall. Aviva must have unpacked last night; her makeup and three bottles of hair product took up half the shelf below the sink.
I stepped over my unpacked duffel bag and padded out of our room through a lounge area to a balcony. The B’nos Sarah Yeshiva for Girls, where Aviva and I had come to study, was on the way up to French Hill. Below me the streets descended a terraced slope, each terrace supporting a four- or five-story stone building. At the bottom of the hill, sand stretched into a deep valley dotted with villages. A minaret blared the call to prayer. Beyond the villages, the yellow hills of the Judean Desert rolled into the distance.
I held my breath. This wasn’t the land of milk and honey, but the land of sand, sand, sand. “Holy shit,” I whispered. There was probably a blessing for such a beautiful sight, but I didn’t know it, so I sang a little bit of “Amazing Grace.”
Back in our room, I put on my running clothes, ate a stale roll from my backpack and left a note for Aviva. Outside, a breeze chased away the night’s cool dew, bringing with it the heat of the desert. The sun bore down, dazzlingly bright, reflecting off the walls of Jerusalem stone. I jogged by more four-story apartment buildings, a grocery store and a bank until I came to a little park with bushes and benches. I stopped to stretch my calves. Again, the desert landscape spread before me. I wanted to run into the sand, to stand in all that space, that emptiness.
I chanted the first morning prayer, “
Mo dei ani
lefanecha.
” Thank you for returning my soul to me
.
I recited other prayers from memory, adding little bits in English. “Thank you for waking me up to see the desert in the morning.”
When I got back to the dorm, sweaty and elated, Aviva was applying anti-frizz to her brown curly hair, peering into a tiny lighted mirror set in a pink plastic makeup box. She looked up. “I was starting to worry about you. You were jogging?” She looked incredulous.
Aviva was petite, with a small elfin face, a pointed chin and crooked eyeteeth. Her nails were always manicured, her blouses and long modest skirts ironed and spot-free. Aviva was super-smart and knew tons about Judaism, yet she was totally sheltered. She’d lived all her life in Toronto and never taken the bus or subway alone. Regular things like movies, soap operas or MTV were exotic to her. We’d met six months earlier at her parents’ house when I started learning about being Jewish. When Aviva suggested I come to the yeshiva with her, I didn’t even know what that meant. But now, here I was, just graduated from high school and spending two months at a seminary in Jerusalem before I started university. Even I couldn’t believe it.
I took a drink from my water bottle. “I didn’t want to wake you, and I had to go out and explore.”
“How did you know where to go?” Aviva carefully slid a rainbow-colored plastic headband into her hair.
“Oh, I just went down the road one way and then retraced my steps.” I lay down on the floor to stretch my hamstrings.
“You should be careful where you go.”
Even though Rabin, Arafat and Clinton had all witnessed the signing the Oslo Accords a few years earlier, all through 1995 there’d been a string of bus bombings in Israel. I got up off the floor with a little leap. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Aviva frowned, but I could tell she was also impressed. “So how was it?”
“Hot. Amazing.” I grinned wildly. “I never knew the desert could be so beautiful.”
Aviva clasped her hands together. “I knew you’d love it here. Do you want to go to the
Kotel
today?”
“Sure. What’s that?”
“Oh.” Aviva looked surprised. “It’s, you know, only the holiest place in Israel, the last wall of the temple.”
“Oh, you mean the Western Wall. Yeah, sure. The
Kotel.
Is that how you say it in Hebrew?”
Aviva nodded.
By the time I showered, dressed and ate breakfast, the temperature had soared. The scorching air felt like a smoky cloud. On the bus I gawked at the stone buildings, the traffic, the different kinds of people: religious men wearing
kippahs
—small cloth skullcaps—teenage soldiers with huge guns, and ordinary loud kids with big backpacks.
The bus dropped us off at the Jaffa Gate of the Old City. On one corner, buses and cars spewed exhaust. Across the street, a massive stone wall encircled the ancient city of Jerusalem. Shivers ran down my sweaty spine. So much for showering.
I followed Aviva through the shady gate and into the Old City. Inside, the sun bounced off the plate glass windows of money changers, jewelry shops and tour agencies. I pivoted, turning in a circle, feeling the slipperiness of the stone road. A man sold bread sticks from a cart in front of a huge stone citadel. I watched a tour guide herd a throng of middle-aged tourists in wraparound sunglasses and safari hats down a narrow alley.
“Come,” Aviva said. “This is nothing.”
She led me through an archway and into a tunnel that opened onto a road so narrow I had to sandwich myself against the stones when a car drove by. “We’re heading into the Armenian section now,” Aviva explained. “It’s the fastest way to the
Kotel
. The other way, you go through the Arab
shuk—
the market. It can be dangerous.”
I had trouble keeping up with Aviva. I wanted to go slowly and take it all in. Tourist shops sold blue and white Armenian pottery, cheap pens, postcards and
I Heart Israel
hats. A blister flared on my heel from my new sandals, and my underwear became a sweat-soaked wedge between my bum cheeks. The heat, or maybe the jet lag, made me dizzy.
Then Aviva turned down a lane lined with tiny grocery stores. I stopped to peer into a newspaper cone of spice. “Zatar,” Aviva said. “You can try it another time.” The road opened up to a square full of jewelry stores and pizza places. In the distance I saw a stone arch, a semicircle of Jerusalem stone.
“That’s the Hurva Synagogue.” Aviva pointed. “The
Kotel
is just around the corner.” We went down another narrow path, and then suddenly we came to a large balcony crowded with people.
“Now”—Aviva beamed—“go as slow as you like.”
The crowd shuffled toward a balcony railing. Aviva pointed. “That’s the
Kotel
. Isn’t it amazing?”
I nodded, but I wasn’t looking at the giant stone wall with weeds growing in the cracks. Above the wall a beautiful golden dome glinted in the sunshine. I drew in my breath and pressed myself against the railing. “What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s the Dome of the Rock.”
I’d read about the Dome in my guidebook. Muslims believed Mohammed had gone up to heaven from a rock inside the shrine. The golden globe rested on its blue mosaic base like the sun setting over a lake. Oh my god, what a gorgeous building. I felt like I was splitting in two, like seismic plates were passing by each other and an earthquake was happening inside me. I thought, I’m gonna divide my life into before and after this moment. I didn’t know anything about Islam, but I thought Muslims must love their religion not only because of heavenly promises—wasn’t there something about virgins in heaven?—but because of this shimmery jewel of gold and aquamarine, this oasis for the senses in a city of white buildings and yellow and brown dirt.
I could have stayed on the balcony forever, but the crowd moved forward, down a set of stairs onto an enormous plaza in front of the wall. Yeshiva boys in their uniform white shirts and dark pants mingled with dorky-looking tour groups in matching sunhats and old lumpy women swathed in scarves. Ultra-Orthodox Jews, or
chassids
, congregated in their eighteenth-century knickerbockers, ringlet sidelocks dangling under their fur hats. As we made our way across the plaza, I noticed a fence dividing the wall into a large men’s sectionand a much smaller women’s section. Aviva joined the sea of backs bobbing and swaying on the women’s side. I sat in a chair in front of the wall on the women’s side to take it all in.
Women pressed against the massive stone in a tight row. Up above, soldiers stood on top of the wall. I wanted to stand up there with them and look down on both the Jewish and Muslim sides. A hovering Christian tour group distracted me. What did they think of all this? I was dying to stop a women in an orange T-shirt proclaiming herself
A Proud Member of the Mississippi Baptist Congregation
and ask her…ask her what? I tried to stop thinking. I mean, I was at the
Kotel
. I wanted the moment to fill me with holiness. I took a few deep breaths and tried to feel the history of the place. Generations of Jews had prayed here, brought sacrifices here. The high priest came here to talk to
God
. I took a deep breath, but I still felt like my same old self.