The Book of Trees (8 page)

Once when I was down in Florida visiting Bess at her condo, I asked her about those tree certificates. We were alone by the pool, reclining on lawn chairs covered with monogrammed towels. Bess took off her glasses and let them dangle on their chain over the saggy bust of her pink muumuu. “I’ll tell you,
mameleh,
why I send those trees to Israel. Because even if you don’t know much about it, you’re a Jew, and Israel is a safe place for you, if you ever need it. You’ll always be okay in Toronto, but just as a backup, there’s another place for you to go. And if you want to live there, they’ll take you right away. They’ll say, ‘Mia Quinn, daughter of Sheila Katz, granddaughter of Bess and Abe Katz, we have you on our list. You are welcome to live here.’”

I didn’t know much else about Israel until Aviva suggested I come to yeshiva with her. Before that, Israel was a foreign, shadowy topic on the nightly news.

Aviva’s mom, Mrs. Blume, showed me slides from one of her trips to Israel. She sat me on her living-room couch one Saturday night and turned on a slide projector. A view of green hills and lakes hovered on the wall. She turned to me. “When I think of Israel,” she began, “I always think of the Jews who arrived there after World War Two: Holocaust survivors who lived through camps like Auschwitz or Bergen-Belsen. Those Jews survived the worst tragedy of the twentieth century. They’d been tortured and starved and were disease-ridden. Then they had a chance to start over again, and not in anti-Semitic Europe but in their own country, promised to them in the Torah. They were coming out of the slavery of Egypt, but instead of Pharaoh, it was Hitler. Instead of sheep to the slaughter, they became warriors in the land of milk and honey. Of course it wasn’t like it is now; there were malaria swamps and the land had been left to fester under Ottoman rule. The Arabs had done nothing to develop the country.”

Mrs. Blume gripped my shoulder. “I imagine those survivors getting off the ship and being handed guns to fight for something they really needed: a homeland.” As Mrs. Blume spoke, she showed me slides of waterfalls in the north, temples in Jerusalem, southern deserts and the Tel Aviv coast.

I spent the next few months reading the novel
Exodus
and a book about the women of the Bible. Many nights when I closed my book I’d lie in bed, too charged up to sleep. I imagined people fleeing a land of snow and dirt, fleeing ravaging Cossacks and bloodthirsty Nazis, fleeing to freedom in a sun-drenched land ready to be planted, harvested and re-peopled. It made me think of my mother’s favorite protest songs: Dylan doing “The Times They Are a-Changin’” and Pete Seeger singing “If I Had a Hammer.” I imagined myself in Israel, walking in the desert, tracing the footpaths of my foremothers Sarah, Rachel, Rebecca and Leah. I’d visit the shops and streets where Holocaust victims became survivors, where the nearly dead became warriors. Like Hannah Senesh, who died trying to rescue Jews from the Nazis, or like the red-haired girl in
Exodus,
I’d be a religious warrior princess, studying Torah, traveling the land and celebrating Shabbos.

Now I stared up at the stippled ceiling of our bland room in a hotel in the middle of those weird trees. Mrs. Blume had never said anything about people already living here. I’d never really thought about Palestinians. They were men wrapped in scarves throwing rocks at Israeli soldiers on the news. I knew they committed terrorist acts, but I’d never thought about why they did them.

I tried to think of the shade the trees cast, the individual needles, the solid strength of each one growing out of that rocky soil, each tree representing a pioneer, a Jew who needed a homeland. But other people used to live here, had raised children and crops on this land. The trees seemed paltry, even miserable, in comparison. I mean, I loved trees, but not more than people.

I couldn’t concentrate the next day during prayers. Through the windows I could see that creepy army of trees. I kept thinking, There are trees instead of people so Jews like me could come to Israel. I had to take a few deep breaths to calm the panic rising in my chest.

After lunch I went for a walk alone in the forest. It was very hot and the repetitive lines of trees made me feel dizzy. I’d never seen a forest without shade and fallen branches. It was like a tree museum or a tree farm. Worse, it felt dead, like a tree graveyard. “These people should stick to desert,” I murmured. These people? What did that mean? I rushed back up the hill to the retreat center, trying to get out of the forest as fast as I could.

When the sun finally fell behind the hills and we’d sung the
havdalah
blessings marking the end of Shabbos
,
we boarded the bus back to the B’nos Sarah dorm. I couldn’t wait to go.

Back in the dorm I lay on my bed in our darkened room with a damp washcloth over my face. My head ached from clenching my teeth. I could hear the voices of happy girls in the lounge. I wished they’d all go out and leave me alone. I hadn’t slept well the night before.

Aviva knocked on our door and leaned her head in. “You okay?”

I lifted the washcloth and squinted at the light from the hall. “Headache.”

“Will you be okay to play?”

“Play what?”

“Remember, the
kumzitz
?”

I groaned. “Oh right.” I’d agreed to play guitar for a sing-along.

Aviva brought me some painkillers and sat on my bed while I got dressed. She had a tan from sitting out in the garden and was wearing a new pair of sandals.

I followed Aviva through the quiet hallways of the school. She poked my ribs. “What’s with the serious look? It’s Saturday night.” She gave a little skip.

“I’m still thinking about the trees.”

“What trees?”

“At the retreat center.”

“What about them?” We went into the second-floor lounge, and Aviva flicked on the lights.

“Doesn’t it bother you that the Jews took over land where other people were living?”

“No, it was our land.” Aviva started moving chairs to form a circle.

“Yes, but other people lived here.”

Chani and Rifka came in with some other girls, carrying bottles of juice, cups and bags of chips. Aviva waved at them and then turned back to me. “That’s true, but they weren’t supposed to.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Chani asked.

“Oh, just Palestinians.”

Chani nodded and joined the other girls in arranging the chairs.

Aviva turned back to me. “God promised the land to the Jews, not the others.”

“So where were the Palestinians supposed to live?”

“There were no Palestinians before ’48. They invented that identity. Before that they were just Arabs and they should have gone to Jordan or Lebanon to live in Arab countries.” She smiled and walked away to get more chairs. “Hey, Mia, Ruthie brought the guitar.”

I silently took the guitar and absently started tuning it. The other girls chattered and danced around the room. What was an invented identity? Israel was a young country. Wasn’t their culture made up from scratch? What was all the tree planting about anyway? It was true there were lots of other Arab countries and only one Jewish country. Still, there had been people living in a village where now there were only trees. My head started to ache again.

More girls filed in, picked up song sheets and sat down. I strummed some bluegrass licks to warm up my fingers, and then I played “Amazing Grace,” the first song I learned on banjo.

Aviva stared at me as if I’d become an alien, so I laid the guitar down on my lap and drummed my fingers on it until Aviva called the group to order.

She led the girls in singing “
Lo Yisa Goy El Goy Cherev
.” Nation shall not lift up sword against nation
.
The girls belted out the song, hands clapping and feet stamping. I strummed along furiously, trying to keep up with their pace.

Then the girls sang a slower song about Jerusalem, “
Yerushalayim Shel Zahav.
” Jerusalem of Gold
.
They draped their arms around each other’s shoulders and swayed as they sang.

Oh, Jerusalem of gold,
And of light and of bronze,
I am the lute for all your songs.

As their voices curled up toward the ceiling, my mind wandered back to what Aviva had said about the Palestinians. Did the rest of the girls think the same things? Chani and the others hadn’t even been interested in the discussion.

I couldn’t stand the way trees were being used. Trees were part of the natural world, like lakes and mountains. They were God’s creation. They were supposed to just be. Sure, people chopped them down, like when Grandma Quinn’s willow was razed, but how could they be used so violently?

When the
kumzitz
was over, Chani lingered behind. “Hey, Mia?”

“Yeah?”

“I bet you know how to play lots of other songs.”

“Sure.”

Chani lowered her voice. “Do you know how to play that Jaywalkers’ song, the one that’s always on the radio at home?” She sang the first line.

I hesitated. I thought of Don reading those terrible lyrics to us in our kitchen, and then I thought of us all up at the cottage. For a moment my mind wandered and I was under the birch trees at the shore. I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t know that one.”

I went back up to my room and chose a postcard of a waving Israeli flag.

Dear Don,

Where you are, trees are part of nature. Here, they are
acts of violence.

I didn’t send it.

SIX

T
he next morning I found Michelle already reading the lesson in our Torah class. She hadn’t come to the retreat because she’d wanted to spend Shabbos studying for her conversion. She looked more pale and drawn than usual.

Michelle looked up. “How was the retreat?”

I sat down. “Okay. Restful, sort of. It was in kind of a weird place.”

“How so?”

“It was in this forest, but not a real forest, a planted one.”

“Oh, I’ve been to one of those. It’s amazing.”

I tried not to frown. She looked so happy.

Michelle beamed. “I went on
Tu B’shvat
, the New Year of the Trees, and I got to plant my own tree.” Her face glowed with pleasure. “We went to this place—even movie stars plant trees there—and I had this little sapling and I put it in the ground with my own hands. Did you know there’s a special prayer just for that? I felt just like a
kibbutznik
planting trees to drain the swamps.”

Michelle looked so happy I didn’t tell her about the village underneath the trees.

After classes I went to the Old City. I couldn’t face the empty feeling of the
Kotel,
so I went to the Tower of David Museum, an enormous stone citadel near Jaffa Gate.

Icy air blasted me as I walked through displays depicting the history of Jerusalem: marauding Greeks, crusading Christians, invading Mameluks and, finally, the homecoming of the Jews. I chose a chair below an air-conditioning vent and let goose bumps form on my skin. I watched a film about Israeli independence twice in a row. The crowds cheered, waved flags and danced the
horah
. Behind me I could hear a Holocaust film from the previous display.

I yawned and checked my watch. The trees were plaguing my sleep. I dreamed of vines running rampant, strangling people while they ate their breakfasts, devouring them as they read the evening paper. When I tried to pray at school, I saw those trees between the words on the page. I squirmed in my chair. I could go back to the dorm and sweat in front of my fan or to school for a drop-in Hebrew session. Neither option appealed.

Heat smacked me in the chest as I left the air-conditioned exhibit hall. A sheen of sweat instantly broke out under the brim of my hat. I followed the labyrinthine paths of the citadel to a lookout tower. The Dome glimmered across the Old City’s church spires, hydro wires, tv antennas and hot-water tanks. Down the street I could see a hostel with mattresses spread out on the roof. That must be where Andrew lived. He hadn’t been on Ben Yehuda since the afternoon we went to the bar. Now there was just the traffic to listen to while waiting for the bus. Andrew would probably know about the trees. He would have some outside perspective. Yes, I could ask him.

I headed out of the museum and marched in the direction of the hostel. Twice I walked down dead-end streets, until I asked for directions.

In the lobby of the hostel, a large man with an untucked shirt talked on the phone behind a counter. A young woman in a gauzy sundress and several toe rings sat on a couch painting her toenails. A henna tattoo snaked around her biceps. She made me think of the bars I used to play at in Toronto.

I paused to study a bulletin board. Bongo drums and a Serratus backpack were for sale. Peace Now was looking for volunteers to rebuild houses. Three American women wanted a non-smoking roommate. All were welcome to attend a Jewish meditation course in Sefat. Flyers advertised car rentals, a Chinese buffet and tours to the Golan, the Galilee and the Negev.

Faintly, I could hear people singing and playing guitars.

“Where’s the music coming from?” I asked the man behind the counter.