I didn’t hesitate to meet with readers in Ma’ale Meir. If what I try to do in my books is deny that there is only one truth and challenge every narrator who claims to be omniscient, how can I refuse the opportunity to get to know people who think and live so differently from me?
In addition, they asked me so nicely. I mean, she asked. Iris. The librarian. Everyone here loves your books, she wrote, adding, and so do I, very much. And added a smiley face.
It’s almost impossible not to return love to people who love you.
So we set a date. All I asked was for them to provide a bulletproof car to pick me up at the checkpoint. After all, we were in the middle of what was turning out to be another intifada.
I can’t promise bulletproof, she wrote. But my Fiat is rock-proof. Is that good enough?
I was already trapped in my agreement-in-principle to go there, and I was ashamed to admit that what was safe enough for her wasn’t safe enough for me. So I said, yes. Of course.
You expected to see an ultra-Orthodox lady, eh? she said when I got into her car.
The truth is…yes.
With an ugly hat and a crazy look in her eyes. And an American accent that’s almost, but not quite, undetectable.
More or less.
Nice to meet you, I’m Iris, she said, extending her hand. And she gave me a smile which, at that particular moment, I mistakenly thought was distracted.
You don’t…?
Don’t avoid touching? She left her hand in mine—after only the first handshake!
Her tone was cheerful, but her handshake was limp, almost melancholy.
On the drive from the checkpoint to Ma’ale Meir, she gave me a rundown of the terrorist attacks that had taken place in the area.
You see that monument on the right? Iris asked as she pointed at it. The Arzi family. A Molotov cocktail, their car went up in flames, the father, the mother, and the children died.
The pile of stones lit up on both sides by spotlights? In memory of Aharon Goldschmit, the military security coordinator of Elisha G. Two bullets in the chest—an ambush. Died before the ambulance arrived.
And a bit farther, there, on the hill after the curve, you can see the caravans of the Lior outpost. His friends from the yeshiva built it after he was run over and killed at the Tapuach intersection. A kid, twenty years old.
—
With each passing minute, I cowered lower in my seat. I tried to reduce my surface area in case someone decided to shoot at Iris’s car with me sitting in it. Unconsciously, I locked my hands behind my head to protect it. Looking out of the window, I tried to see figures lying in wait in the dark.
Isn’t it hard, living in constant fear? I finally asked. And to my shame, I felt the quiver in my voice.
It depends when, Iris said, her voice firm. Now, specifically, is not a great time. But here we are, almost at our destination, she added. By the way, ten meters ahead, on the left, you can see the Boaz Memorial.
Don’t tell me—I tried to ease the tension with a joke—the stones hit the windshield. He lost control of his car. Forty-five years old.
Almost, Iris smiled that distracted smile. Stabbed in the chest. At the gate. Thirty-four years old. Left behind three sons, and me.
I stopped short.
I mean, the car kept moving, but inside me, something suddenly braked.
Oh, I didn’t know. I’m really sorry for—
It’s okay.
No, really, it was so insensitive of me.
Never mind. You didn’t know.
But still…I’m sorry for your loss. It must have been…for you…how long ago did he…
Two years, she said, and ran a finger over her right eyebrow. After a brief pause, she added, But it feels like it happened this morning.
Maybe we should stop for a minute near the memorial? I suggested, trying to make up for being so tactless. And you can tell me a little bit about Boaz?
Some other time, she said, and kept driving, smiling that smile I had mistakenly thought was distracted and now knew was sad—they’re waiting for us in the library.
—
Half of the community is here, Iris said when we entered.
I noticed that most of those present were women. Seated next to one another on plastic chairs that were crowded together in the small space between the reception counter and the bookshelves.
Two of the women—probably Iris’s assistants—stood up, welcomed me warmly, and asked if I wanted something to drink. Tea? Coffee?
Just water, please, I said. I took the books out of my bag, walked over to the non-stage, and arranged them on the table. Near the vase of flowers. There is always a vase of flowers.
Iris turned on the microphone and introduced me. She mentioned that my grandfather was once prime minister. Listed the names of my books. Said how much they appreciated my coming at a time when even their relatives were afraid to visit.
Then she turned to me and said, I’ve spoken enough. We’ve come to hear you.
The meeting went smoothly. At least at the beginning.
I deliberately chose to read passages that weren’t directly political, but even so, they had at least one moment when a character unexpectedly identifies with “the other”: A man suddenly realizes why his wife is not happy with him. The father of a little boy forgives his own father, in retrospect, for his flaws.
During the question period, I was asked very cautiously about
