The Marsh Angel by Hagai Dagan (ebooks online reader .TXT) 📗

he found himself reciting Tchernichovsky’s words: Oh my land, my birthplace, clay roofs on houses… The olive rests near the olive, his lips moved silently, land, land of my inheritance, many-fronded palm, cruel cacti-lined border, stream of little water…

Almost against his will, he conjured up the sight of the scant few ruins remaining of Damun village on the banks of the Hilazon stream. As a child, he was reared on stories of the pioneers who had established the kibbutzes of Kfar Masaryk and Ein HaMifratz, who had bravely and determinedly dried the marshes of the Western Galilee. He imagined them as strange marsh-dwellers, amphibian creatures with gills and fins and wings of coots and stints. When he met Dallal and Sa’ira, he gazed at them in wonder. They had no wings, gills, or fins. Just sweet, intoxicating voices, and eyes to lose oneself in.

An entire world, Amalia said quietly, following his gaze over the pictures.

Yes.

So, how can I help you?

Do you remember the story about the Arab al-Ghawarneh?

Yes, the Bedouins near Acre.

Remember I asked you about two twins, Dallal and Sa’ira Zaidani?

Oh… Right. Yes.

You said you’d try to find out.

I did find out, but you didn’t leave me any contact details so I couldn’t reach you. Hold on a minute. She opened a file cabinet and skimmed through a few files before pulling one out. She flipped through it, and finally pulled out a newspaper clipping. Yes, here it is. The article about the demolition of the settlement featuring Sai’ra. Besides that, I found something else. She showed him another newspaper clipping from 1975. The headline in Maariv reported in blood-red letters about a seaborne terrorist attack by al-Sa‘iqa at the beach near Acre. It was reported that the terrorists reached the estuary of the Na‘aman just before evening time in Zodiac boats. They killed and wounded several bathers along with two Bedouins, a young couple, Samir and Jamila Zaidani of the Arab al-Ghawarneh tribe that was located by the estuary, near the beach. They found a fishing pole by their bodies. They left behind two twins.

Tamir looked at the report and recalled what his Arabic teacher had said. He remembered seeing that attack by al-Sa‘iqa when he studied the histories of the different organizations. He didn’t make the connection back then. Sloppy of him. He couldn’t understand why Dallal would go to a Palestinian youth movement in Acre if al-Sa‘iqa had killed her parents.

Anything beyond paper clippings? he asked Amalia.

Well, this is where it gets weird.

How so?

I checked in the civil registry office, and also spoke to a couple of friends at the Supreme Monitoring Committee for Arab Affairs in Israel. Back at the time, they tried to stir up a fuss about the settlement’s demolition, and make some political gains along the way…

And…?

And nothing.

What do you mean nothing?

Nothing. There’s no trace of the twins. Nothing.

That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Sa’ira is interviewed in the article!

Yes, she interviewed for the article and disappeared. I even tried to probe around with some friends at UNRWA, in civil rights organizations, Palestinian diaspora organizations… Nothing. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as if…

As if someone made them disappear?

Yes.

The plot thickens, Tamir muttered under his breath.

Yes, but that’s life here, isn’t it? she cast her wise eyes upon him. We live in one great convoluted plot. So convoluted that it sometimes feels like there’s no point even dreaming about unraveling it.

Could be. He wasn’t in poetic mood.

Remind me, why are you so interested in her?

She pulled me out of the thicket once.

What thicket? It that a metaphor?

Thicket…

She looked at him intently. You have the expression of someone who’s a bit…

A bit what?

In love.

b. Sacrifice, Return, Liberation

As Tamir made his way towards headquarters, from afar it reminded him of the fortified castles he saw years before in the British science-fiction television series Thunderbirds. All he could remember about the show was an assortment of futuristic aircrafts launching from elaborate, multi-storied, towered castles. Therefore, when he entered the giant structure, his eyes scoured the building in search of launch-pads and aircrafts, but alas, found none. All he could see were long corridors lined with rows of identical doors.

Each door led to a different department. The departments looked like offices for all intents and purposes. In his department, Department 195, a number of people were sat in front of computer stations. Tamir knew that all these people, to whom he was now being introduced, were unit heads, but he thought they looked more like physics students. Not that he knew what physics students were supposed to look like, but he felt they probably looked something like that. Their uniforms were casually unkempt; they seemed kind-hearted, astute, and at the same time absentminded. They lacked any sort of strict military regimentation. Tamir went over one by one and each of them briefly explained what their unit does, the organizations it monitors, and their means of communications: the Democratic Front unit, the Fatah unit, the Popular Front unit, the al-Sa‘iqa unit, Fatah/Abu Musa… He got the feeling that the people he was speaking with viewed their work as academic endeavors. That made him feel very good. He felt he had arrived at a place which perfectly suited his temperament. On their part, they viewed him with a mixture of curiosity and appreciation. He hadn’t picked up on that sentiment until the head of the Popular Front unit said to him that she hopes he won’t be bored in the department. He asked her why he should feel bored, and she replied that they mostly just go over paperwork, that they don’t usually expose double-agents. He said he had no idea how that story had made the rounds so quickly.

Don’t you know there are no secrets in intelligence? she laughed.

I thought there’s been compartmentalization since 1973, he said.

No amount of compartmentalization could stop a juicy story getting around, she chuckled. Her name was Keren. She wore her uniform demonstratively, as if saying: I’m not wearing