the curb.
*
An elderly nurse came in to plump up Elie’s pillows. She raised the head of the bed and brought a cup of apple juice to his lips. On the TV screen across the room, a live broadcast from the peace rally showed happy faces singing in Hebrew. Colorful banners swayed in the gentle breeze:
Peace Now!
Yes to Peace!
We Love Rabin!
Kibbutz Movement Supports Peace!
Labor Students for Peace!
The anchor described the unprecedented high attendance-possibly half a million people.
The singing ended, and the mayor of Tel Aviv invited Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin to speak. The crowd cheered.
Rabin’s face filled the screen. He smiled sheepishly at his perennial political rival, Foreign Minister Shimon Peres, who stood beside him.
When the crowd finally quieted down, Rabin spoke. “I was a soldier for twenty-seven years. I fought as long as there was no prospect of peace. But I believe that there is now a chance for peace. A great chance! And it must be seized!”
More cheers while Rabin leaned on the podium with a lopsided grin. Elie wondered if his posture meant that Rabin had relented and put on a bulletproof vest, its weight causing him to lean on the podium. He watched Rabin’s familiar yet aged face. They had both spent a lifetime in the service of the Jewish people. Elie wondered what was going through Rabin’s mind, how it felt to receive such explicit adulation, to be embraced by the loving masses, to bask in the glow of popular gratitude, rather than lie alone in a starched hospital room.
“ I have always believed,” Rabin continued, “that most of the nation wants peace and is prepared to take risks for peace. You, by coming here, are taking a stand for peace. You prove that the nation truly wants peace. And rejects violence!”
The last word generated booing through the plaza, and the TV camera captured individual faces, mouths open, hands waving.
“ Violence is undermining the foundations of Israeli democracy.” Rabin’s voice grew angrier. “Violence must be rejected! Condemned! And contained! Violence is not the way of the State of Israel! Democracy is our way!”
“ Exactly,” Elie said quietly. “Exactly!”
*
Lemmy knew that the old brakes wouldn’t manage to stop the motorcycle in time. The woman gripped her daughter’s hand, both of them paralyzed in his path. Paula’s face flashed in his mind, the girl she may be carrying. His foot pressed the rear-brake pedal, locking the wheel, and he shifted his weight left, leaning the Triumph as it slid sideways, both wheels now perpendicular to the direction of travel, sliding rather than turning. The tires uttered a hiss as they scraped against the road, slowing him down. Just before hitting the two, he straightened up, swerved right, and hit the curb. The bike became airborne. In slow motion it flew over the street corner, into the main cross street, bounced a few times without falling over, and reached the median, where the front wheel lodged into thick shrubs, throwing Lemmy off.
He lay on his back for a moment, only the dark sky filling his view.
People ran over and helped him up. They asked him questions, their voices indistinct. He didn’t reply.
Traffic was stationary. A siren sounded in the distance. He checked himself. Each of his limbs worked fine, nothing broken.
More questions. Someone held Lemmy’s arm.
He pulled the Triumph out of the bushes, off the median, and mounted it. The people around him stood back, stunned. He stepped on the kick start, the engine roared, and he took off, using the pedestrian crossing to return to his original direction.
Despite pulling the throttle all the way, the bike rewarded him with meek acceleration. Possible causes flew through his mind. A failing cylinder? A cracked fuel line? A misaligned sparkplug? Anything worse than that and the bike would croak!
As his speed increased, he noticed a wriggle in the handlebar. Was the front wheel bent?
Yoni’s bus was out of sight.
*
Elie Weiss watched Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin waiting for the applause to quiet down. He stood straight now, an old soldier’s proud bearing. So much for a bulletproof vest. “Peace is not just a prayer,” Rabin declared. “It starts with a prayer, but it’s also the primary aspiration of the Jewish people. Peace has its enemies. They are trying to harm us. Torpedo the peace.”
A few catcalls sounded in response.
“ We have found a partner for peace,” Rabin said. “The PLO, once an enemy, has now forsaken terrorism.”
He paused, but there were no cheers. Even after signing the first two Oslo agreements, the murderous PLO and its scruffy, arch-terrorist leader were perceived as necessary evils rather than friends.
“ There is no painless way forward for Israel,” Rabin said. “It is our fate. And the way of peace is painful also. Filled with sacrifices. But better the pain suffered along the way of peace than the way of war. Anyone who served like me, who has seen the grieving families of the IDF, knows it. We must exhaust every possibility. Every opening. Bring a comprehensive peace!” He paused and watched the applauding crowd, indulging them like a father.
“ This rally sends a message to the Israeli public,” Rabin announced. “To Jewish people everywhere. To the multitudes in the Arab lands. And to the world at large. The nation of Israel wants peace and supports peace! And for this, I thank you!”
Elie watched a blonde woman take the microphone, Rabin and Peres at her side. She had a clear, sonorous voice, as she broke into an old, familiar tune of Israel’s lingering hope: “ Let the sun rise, the morning brighten up, and the purest of prayers, shall not disappoint us… ”
The camera caught faces in the crowd, singing, waving flags, throwing flowers at the stage. Rows of men and women clasped hands and swayed from side to side, lips moving with the words, eyes bright with hope, some with tears of joy.
Back on Prime Minister Rabin, the camera showed him singing, his eyes on a piece of paper, scribbled with the lyrics. “ So let’s sing a song for peace, no whispered prayer, sing for peace, cheer it loudly!”
Elie closed his eyes and listened to the singing from Tel Aviv. He knew that soon the singing would give way to screaming.
*
Police had set up detours in the center of Tel Aviv, the roads clogged with stop-and-go traffic. Lemmy threaded the bike between cars. His elbow hit a side-view mirror, and the driver shouted an expletive. He passed several buses. None was number 247. He scanned the road ahead. He was not familiar with the streets, unsure where the peace rally was taking place.
Pedestrian traffic was getting denser. He heard music from loudspeakers and recognized the tune as an old song from his army days-something about giving peace a chance.
Farther ahead a bus took a left turn, and Lemmy recognized the swimsuit ad on the side of Yoni’s bus. But in the moment before the bus disappeared, he saw the vacant rear bench. There must be other buses displaying the same advertisement! On the other hand, the proximity to the peace rally could mean that Yoni had disembarked.
On the right, Lemmy saw a bus stop, now empty. The passengers who had stepped off the bus were walking away, melting into the crowd. He proceeded slowly down the road, searching. Many bare heads, a few skullcaps, none blue-and-white.
A side street was blocked off to vehicle traffic with steel barriers. At the far end Lemmy could see the bright glow of the Kings of Israel Plaza, the throngs of people, the banners, and huge flags. He stood on the pegs, holding on to the handlebar, and from that higher perch scanned the forest of heads that filled the side street between him and the plaza.
Blue-and-white skullcap! Halfway down!
His finger on the horn button, Lemmy steered the Bonneville around and jumped the curb. He rode between
