A Possibility of Violence (16 page)

Chava Cohen's son and brother had been allowed to enter her room for a few moments, and he searched for them in the hope of learning whether or not she'd said something regarding the circumstances of the assault, but he didn't see them in the corridor. One of the nurses told him that they had gone to eat, and he waited. The doctors rarely went into the room, so that Chava Cohen could remain undisturbed, and from short conversations with them he understood that permission to question her could be received only once the head of the department arrived.

At eleven thirty in the morning Avraham saw Chava Cohen's brother talking on the telephone in the corridor and waited for him to finish the conversation. He, too, reported that his sister hadn't said a word, only cried. But she recognized both of them and hugged her son when he bent down to kiss her, and this was regarded as a hopeful sign. Ma'alul called to ask if Avraham wanted him to come to the hospital, and Avraham answered that for now there was no need. In any case, he didn't know how many investigators would be permitted to enter the room during questioning.

He ate an omelette and cream cheese sandwich in the café at the entrance to the hospital. He had no doubt that in a few hours he'd be leading Sara into the interrogation room, but there was something else, too. It seemed to him that something was burning in him again. The head of the Trauma Unit arrived at two in the afternoon, and after examining Chava Cohen gave instructions to allow her two more hours of rest, and Avraham updated Ilana about the delay. It was premature to determine her condition and what kind of serious damage, if any, she had sustained, but the preliminary examination showed that she would be able to communicate with the investigators. He smoked two cigarettes before the videography team—a cameraman and a sound recordist—arrived and began preparing their equipment outside the room. And Ilana arrived at a quarter to five. She asked for the head of the department to be present at the interview and requested a clipboard with paper and two pencils from the nursing staff, in case Chava Cohen wasn't able to move the muscles of her mouth.

At 5:10, more than ten hours after she regained consciousness, the department head went inside to examine Chava Cohen, after which he opened the door and signaled with his head for the investigators to enter.

Ilana entered the room first, with Avraham behind her.

The video team crowded in front of her bed and the cameraman asked for all the lights to be turned on, because the lighting was poor. Ilana sat on a chair next to Chava Cohen's bed and Avraham stood behind her, next to the IV machine she was connected to. On the other side of her bed stood the department head.

Chava Cohen's eyes were open but didn't look at him. Her mouth was open as well but didn't move. He didn't know if she noticed him, and if so, if she recognized him. Ilana bent down toward her and in a soft voice said, “Chava, my name is Ilana Lis and I'm from the police Investigations Unit. First of all, I want to tell you that I'm very glad you woke up. All of us waited for you to wake up. The doctors told me that you would be able to answer a few questions for me now in regards to the assault. Do you feel that you can talk to me?”

The eyes didn't move, nor the mouth.

Ilana looked at the department head and he signaled for her to continue. She said, “Chava, we found you at night between Sunday and Monday in a ditch in south Tel Aviv. Do you remember how you got there?”

Now Avraham noticed a slight movement of the head. Chava Cohen remembered. And her eyes closed. He heard the crying that the doctors described earlier, a sort of muffled whimper that didn't emerge from the mouth, which still didn't move.

Ilana placed her hand on her mouth and waited. Soon she asked again, “Chava, do you remember how you got into that ditch and who attacked you?” And again Chava moved her head—and again the muffled whimper could be heard. It seemed to Avraham that she was straining to raise her head off the pillow.

The department head held her arm and said, “Chava, can you write for us on this board? You showed me before how well you can move your hand, right? Let's move it together. I'll help you.” He placed her hand on the board. Avraham didn't see the letters being slowly drawn on the sheet of paper, because Ilana hovered in front of him, only the slow movement of Chava Cohen's hand, as the department head supported her arm.

“ ‘Uzan'? Is that what you wrote? You wrote ‘Uzan'?” And again the whimper was heard, this time deeper and more muffled, like it was the moan of her entire wounded body.

Ilana turned to him. “Does that mean anything to you? Do we know who this Uzan is?” she asked.

Avraham advanced toward the bed in order to see the letters. He wanted to be sure that that was what she wrote, and still didn't believe it. He nodded, and Ilana again faced Chava Cohen and asked, “Chava, can you write for us here the full name?”

And Chava Cohen wrote it.

10

EVERYTHING WAS READY WHEN THE CHILDREN
woke up—except for him.

In the center of the living room stood the old suitcase and next to it the carryall that he had bought the day before, that they'd take with them on the plane. On the sofa, next to the blue pillow, which was still there, he had put the paper bag from the Bella Donna shop with the gifts inside. He spread the plane tickets out on the table like a fan. Even breakfast was ready, and on the children's plates cheese sandwiches and tomato slices had been arranged, with mugs of chocolate milk next to them.

As Chaim drank coffee facing the open window he heard stirring from their room and guessed that Shalom was awake and sitting up in his bed.

He lingered another moment in the kitchen with his coffee and listened to his son, who called out by name to Ezer, who was sleeping in the bed above him.

Even though he had seen this moment in his imagination many times over the last few days he didn't feel completely ready, mainly because of the conversation with his mother. During the conversation he spoke firmly and aggressively rejected her arguments, but nevertheless she left him with a bitter taste in his mouth and weakened his sense of confidence. Tomorrow at this time there would be no room for hesitation. They'd already be at the airport. Would they be sitting on the plane? Maybe waiting for the announcement about the gate opening for passengers to board? He imagined himself and his children being swallowed up in the dark corridor leading to the plane. Their final day at home had been planned down to the last detail.

 

THERE WERE, HOWEVER, SOME DETAILS IN
the travel plan that Chaim still didn't know. Where would they go immediately after landing in Manila, before the hotel? Also, what would they do together in the foreign city for almost two weeks after the search for Jenny bore no fruit? At a bookstore downtown he bought a travel guide for the Philippines and started reading it at night so that he'd be able to answer the questions the children would ask after he told them about the trip. If they were going for only two or three days, that would be easier. He already wanted the three of them to return and be home. He imagined their new life without Jenny, when the children wouldn't ask him about her anymore, because they'd know what had happened.

Ezer slept in his underwear and had taken it off to pee, and so he was completely naked when Chaim led them into the living room. Shalom was in his pajamas. They stopped in the center of the living room, in front of the suitcases, and Shalom asked, “Why is there a bag here?”

Chaim said, “You have to guess. When do you use a suitcase?” And Shalom looked at the slender body of his big brother, who said, “When you take a trip.” Shalom was still staring at Ezer. He asked him, “But who's taking one?” and Chaim said, “We are. You have to guess where.”

He was surprised when they didn't succeed in guessing right away.

When he had run through the conversation in his head the two of them knew the answer and shouted it out together.

Shalom said, “To Grandma's?” and Chaim said, “No. You get one more guess.”

Ezer stood silently in front of the suitcases and didn't participate in the guessing game, maybe because he still hadn't woken up entirely.

“To Aunt Adina's?”

Chaim shook his head again.

“So where are we going?” Shalom asked, and Chaim said, “Do you want me to show you?”

If he could have banished from his mind the things his mother said the evening before, he wouldn't have hesitated before revealing the answer to them. In their language his mother said to him, “What are you lying to them and dragging them there for? You can tell them here, too, that they won't be seeing her anymore,” but Chaim didn't explain to her that their trip was the opposite of a lie, that they're going in order to discover the truth. Shalom jumped in place, and Chaim thought he saw a small smile on Ezer's sealed-off face when he said to them, “We're going to meet Mom. We're flying to her in a plane tomorrow morning.”

They were truly happy, and Chaim knew that their happiness would turn to disappointment and despair, but that was exactly what he intended. The first days would be sad but he'd cheer them up, and by the time they returned to Israel the pain would have faded. Certainly with Shalom. It would take more time for Ezer, but he too would understand. And he'd return to him because he wouldn't have anyone else. He gave each of them a plane ticket and explained that the seats were already reserved. Ezer would sit next to the window and would be able to watch the plane take off into the sky and over the clouds and Shalom would sit next to him, between his big brother and his father. Shalom protested and said that he wanted to sit next to the window, and Chaim promised that the flight would be long and they'd be able to take turns. Ezer turned his ticket over and over and looked at the tickets remaining on the table, and Chaim said, “There's a ticket for Mom, too. When we come back home, she'll sit next to you on the plane.”

 

AFTER THEY GOT DRESSED AND ATE
breakfast Chaim showed them what he had packed in the suitcase. He explained that it's hot in the Philippines but sometimes rains, and so they'd take jackets and umbrellas. Shalom tossed a plastic lion and elephant into the suitcase and Ezer placed two toy cars inside. Afterward he showed them the packages from Bella Donna and the boys decided that Ezer would give Jenny the jeans and Shalom the shirt. He sat them at the table and placed before them the paper and markers that he bought at the bookstore. Shalom asked, “But what should we draw for Mom?” And Chaim said, “Draw her pretty pictures and give them to her with the presents, so she'll be surprised.”

He sat next to them while Shalom filled the paper with thick blue lines, between which he drew a crooked square black in color, and he said, “I'm drawing Mom a plane.” Ezer didn't want to draw and Chaim said to him, “So maybe you'll write her a letter?” This was the first time he sat like this with the children and watched them while they drew. Exactly like the young parents whom he saw at the daycare, he thought, like the father with the glasses and his son, between whom he had observed such a natural closeness. The children were excited about traveling on a plane, but perhaps also about the fact that someone was sitting next to them and watching them while they drew, which Jenny never did. How many times had he asked her to sit with them and draw? “Do you think they'll be artists?” she once asked him with contempt. “They'll be like you, they'll make egg sandwiches.” He tried to teach Shalom how to draw a plane—between the blue lines of the sky he drew a long narrow shape in black, and on its side the horizontal lines of the wings and in it a row of squares that were supposed to be the windows, but Shalom was jealous of Ezer, who wrote letters on his paper. He wanted to write a letter to Jenny too. For a while Shalom drew unclear marks on the paper and pretended that they were words, and when he gave up he asked Chaim to write for him and Chaim added in red at the edge of the page,
Dear Mom, This is the plane we're flying to you in after so long
, and signed the boy's name.

Ezer continued writing large letters, slow and focused, and he refused to show his father or brother what he was writing. Chaim suddenly thought that when they returned from Manila he'd sign him up for a drawing class after school, or, if Ezer preferred, a writing class—regardless of the cost. He asked him, “Ezer, do your friends at school take classes after school?” and Ezer nodded. “Maybe you'll take one too when we get back from the flight? Do you want to?”

Before noon he left them alone in the apartment for a few minutes and went down to buy ground beef. He made spaghetti Bolognese and Shalom ran to him in the kitchen every few minutes and showed him another drawing.

 

THE QUIETEST HOURS ON THAT LAST
day before the trip were in the afternoon.

He put Shalom down for a nap in his bed and afterward returned to the living room and sat on the couch next to Ezer, who was quietly watching cartoons. He placed his hand on the boy's head and Ezer moved his body closer to him and let his head fall onto his father's shoulder. The distress that the conversation with his mother had left in him gradually disappeared. He knew he was doing the right thing for them, even if no one would understand it, not even his mother. The proof was this morning, these hours, which he knew he would never forget. He never had felt a greater closeness to his children, nor had they been so calm in a long time. Ezer no longer had a need for another, imaginary, father, and his sitting up close next to him was calm, like when he was a baby, before he drew away from him because of Jenny and the things she said about him.

He asked Ezer if he could read him a story, and when Ezer nodded yes, Chaim went to their room and brought back the book about the boy who walks in his sleep. He turned off the television and read aloud to him, as he had done a few days earlier, but this time, without planning to in advance, he changed the story's plot. His son raised his dark eyes and looked at him when he changed the name of the story's protagonist from Itamar to Ezer—and afterward his look was full of surprise when Chaim told about how Ezer gets up while sleeping and walks on the walls of the room and enters a picture hanging on one of the walls that has a colorful airplane painted on it. In the story Chaim made up, the boy flies with his father and his brother in order to find his mother who disappeared inside another picture hanging on the wall in a distant country.

Chaim felt Ezer's warm breath on his shoulder as he approached the end of the story and understood that he had fallen asleep.

The boy didn't find his mother in Chaim's story, but he found his father, who went out searching for him.

That was exactly what he felt, without formulating the words in his head, that for the first time he himself was entering into the picture of his life and crafting his own story. So many times he felt his fate wasn't in his hands, but this time it was different. And when they returned from Manila the children's lives would also be new—they'd be painless.

He waited for Ezer's sleep to deepen before carefully getting up and letting his sleeping body gently settle onto the sofa. Afterward he removed a clean sheet of paper from the pack of drawing paper that he'd bought for the boys and a pen from a drawer in the living room and went to the kitchen to write the letter that Jenny had left for them.

What would his mother say about this if she knew?

A day earlier, when he went to pick up the boys from her house, he told her that they'd be flying to the Philippines for two weeks, ostensibly to be with Jenny and return with her to Israel, and that the plan was that they wouldn't find her and would return by themselves. Before this she only knew that they were taking a trip in order to avoid the police investigation. His mother looked at him and said, “Why there?” And he wasn't able to explain because of what he'd told her about Jenny's death, and because he knew that she wouldn't understand. He said only, “This is how they'll have their farewell from her,” and she looked at him without understanding and said, “It would be better for them not to have a farewell like that. You'll destroy them.” He kept quiet, not intending to answer her, but she continued doubting him and undermining his confidence. For a moment he thought that she was simply afraid that on their trip the boys would see children who looked like them and would think that their place was in fact there. His mother said, “The police haven't called you again for more questioning, so enough, enough with the trip. It might be that they found who did it. A farewell like you're talking about isn't good for them,” and he exploded because of her stubbornness and the firm tone in which she spoke to him and screamed, “Again you're telling me what to do? You know better than me what's good for them?”

She didn't know that according to his plan the children would think that Jenny would be waiting for them at the airport in Manila and that this was intended to be the first disappointment.

They'd come out to the greeting area at the airport and look for her.

He'd tell them that she must be running late or got confused about the time of their landing, and then they'd wait at the airport for a long time, and in the meantime maybe they'd buy something to drink or eat if they were hungry. Afterward they'd go to the house where she supposedly lived and he'd call her on the way and there'd be no answer, and even when they arrived there she wouldn't answer. They'd wait, helpless, in front of some random house, and finally they'd take a cab to a hotel and would stay there until they could figure out why she didn't come to greet them at the airport and why she wasn't waiting for them at the house, and he'd continue calling Jenny from there but she would continue not answering and Chaim wouldn't understand why. The next day they'd return to the house Jenny was living in and again she wouldn't be there but she'd leave a letter for them. That was one possibility, and there was another possibility: that the letter wouldn't be there but instead would be sent to them at the hotel.

When the children had said good-bye to his mother, still not knowing they were taking a trip, or where to, Chaim didn't even say bye to her. He waited outside the house, on the cement path that he had paved, while she hugged and kissed them in the doorway. She cried and tried to hide her crying, but Shalom asked, “Grandma, why do you have tears in your eyes?” And she said what she always said to Chaim when he was little: “Because I was cutting onions.”

 

HE WORKED ON JENNY'S FAREWELL LETTER
in the kitchen for a long time.

He stared at the words he wrote and then went to the bedroom and buried the letter in the suitcase and again opened Jenny's drawers, and for some reason removed the pictures of the wedding in Cyprus and the letters her sister wrote her from Berlin and looked at the cramped handwriting on the lines of the pink paper, full of hearts and exclamation marks.