Rabinowitz Clay Urn

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-0983-3137-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 98 Seiten

The Clay Urn follows the story of Ari and Ilana-two Israelis in the 1980s-as they meet, fall in love, and grapple with their ideologies on the war against the Intifada. Ari grew up trying to fill the void his father had left behind after being killed in combat. Ari was given the option to serve within the comfort of a desk job, but instead chose to fight on the front lines. Ilana, artistic and intuitive, is a counselor in the army who often dreams of what life could offer beyond a place where fighting is fueled by bloodlines. During her service, Ilana is continuously troubled by the mental toll the war takes on both the agitated men she sees returning from combat zones, and the families and civilians caught in the middle. For Ari, serving in the army acts as a trigger, causing him to relive moments with his father-both good and bad. As his duties heighten, he turns to Ilana for counsel. When Ilana's service ends, she leaves for New York City, needing to put space between her and the conflict, even if that means leaving her relationship with Ari behind. For Ari, the separation causes him to retreat emotionally and leaves him desperate for any kind of support system. When a mission he leads ends in bloodshed, Ari craves a nurturing touch. When Ilana eventually returns home to Israel, she and Ari find each other in different states. As the two of them struggle to reconnect, they are thrust into the mercy of the war, leaving their lives completely shattered in the wake of the violence. The Clay Urn explores themes of humanity, war, trauma, and recovery.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Rabinowitz, Paul

Leseproben

Chapter 1               Ilana searches for her glasses on the bedside table. Looking beyond Ari’s sleeping body and through the large open window above his head, her eyes settle on a crescent moon floating high above the Judean Hills. Stars pulsate in the expansive night sky. A deep ravine snakes its way through the arid desert to the lowest point on earth. Ilana exhales and wonders if the attraction will last forever. He doesn’t snore. She’ll have many nights of uninterrupted sleep. Her grandfather snores like thunder, and her grandparents are still together. Her grandfather survived Auschwitz and resettlement, two terrorist attacks and four wars. He deserves to snore. She prefers the window closed at night; the desert air can be cool. Yesterday, she saw a nightshirt in a store on Ben Yehuda Street. She ran her fingers over the heavy material. “Jerusalem can be cool at night,” the shopkeeper had said. Ilana misses Tel Aviv: the hot, humid air, the beachfront and café. She misses her grandparents. They’re frail and stay close to home. In the afternoon, they will go out to the seaside promenade, find a bench and let the sun graze their skin. Her grandfather will rub her grandmother’s arm. Liquid eyes will look out beyond the horizon. “Dis is good,” he’ll say. A group of children will chase a sandpiper. The little bird will scurry along, jumping over the white foam, shrieks of laughter echoing off the incoming waves. A vendor with thin, tanned legs will haul ice cream in an oversized metal cooler, the worn leather strap cutting his shoulder. Pushing forward, he’ll move quickly along the sand, brandishing a blue popsicle stick. The children will yell with excitement, their mothers’ eyes shifting from intense conversations to check the chaos. “Dis is good,” her grandfather will repeat to her grandmother. The late afternoon sun will dip below the water, a silver glow pushing through the mist. Rising slowly from the bench, her grandmother will angle her grandfather’s beret and look towards the busy street. He’ll extend his hand and recall the day little Ilanachka darted across the street. Ambulance sirens whirled. Mothers screamed. “I’m okay, grandpa,” Ilana had said as the medics carefully lifted her onto the stretcher. She squeezed her grandfather’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. His eyes welled up. “Don’t worry, grandpa. I’m OK.” Waiting for the light to change he’ll look into his wife’s eyes and let the memory drift away. “Dis way?” he’ll say. Smiling, she’ll squeeze his thick hand. “Yes, dis way.”   Ilana adjusts her glasses. She stares at the subtle movement of Ari’s chest, his skin stretched tightly around well-defined muscles. Small breaths. She wants to slip her arm under his waist and pull him close, feel the warmth of his excitement, put her hand between his legs, whisper words into his ear, and let him mount her waiting body. She inhales. A bright star streaks across the open window. In the muddled blackness a dog shrieks. She rests her head upon the pillow, inhales, and finishes. Ari does not wake. Friday will be the first time Ari will meet her grandparents. They’ll walk down Arlozorov Street. Ilana will hold Ari’s hand. They will find her grandparents sitting at a table under a red and white awning. She’ll make the introductions. “Dis is like Paris,” her grandfather will say to them. “You’ve never been to Paris,” her grandmother will remind him. Ilana will smile and rest her head on her grandfather’s shoulder. She’ll pull him close and say, “I love you.” They’ll drink cappuccinos. He’ll ask Ari about future plans, about his army service—where he was, what he did. Her grandmother will listen. She’ll study Ari’s eyes, the timing of his smile. Ilana will glance at the clock on the wall and signal for the check. Her grandfather will say something in Yiddish, Ilana will answer in Hebrew, her grandmother will respond in Polish. They’ll rise and her grandfather will point towards the seaside promenade. “Dis way,” he’ll say.   Ilana kicks off the blanket and walks over to the patio door. Ari does not wake. She lifts a frame from the shelf and stares at the black and white photo. She is caught in lively expression. Her head rests on Ari’s shoulder, her eyes wide and bright. She returns the photo to the shelf, placing it next to a clay urn. She closes her nightgown, slides the door open and steps outside. Somewhere in the night, the dog continues to bark. There is a crack and then silence. On the other side of the stone fence, a bitch crosses the deserted street. The dog sees Ilana and moves towards her. The dog’s hot breath mixes with the cool desert air. Ilana opens the gate. “Come here, sweet girl,” she says. The first ray of morning light enters the small garden, casting a shadow towards the west. The bitch lays near Ilana, licking a wound on her back leg. Her right ear is torn. At a makeshift wooden table, Ilana spreads out colored pencils and a sketchpad. She draws a black dog. Blood trickles from the dog’s teeth, splashing onto the barren earth. Ilana lights a cigarette. In the distance, the sun peaks over the high wall of the distant Jordanian mountains. A blanket of orange and red tumbles across the early morning sky. A curl of smoke wraps around her forehead. In the background of the picture, she draws a sea. The water is still. With a thick, black pencil she outlines Ari’s body, floating high above the water, his face looking up towards a cloudless sky. At the edge of the water, Ilana lies naked. Her back is curved against a large boulder. She draws a rope around Ari’s waist. The end dangles near her hand. With her eyes fixed on the still water, she is casually raising her right hand towards the rope. She does not rise from the boulder and does not reach the rope. The bitch whimpers. Ilana stamps out her cigarette and runs her hand over the dog’s head. “Sweet girl.” Ilana leaves the gate open and climbs back into bed. Ari’s body is warm and familiar. She bends her back and stretches her arm up towards the window. Ari exhales and pushes his face deeper into the pillow.   They first met in a crowded grocery store. Ilana’s friend had organized a party in Jerusalem and asked her to come up from Tel Aviv. She ducked into the small store to buy juice to mix with the vodka. The store smelled of fresh produce and dried Mediterranean herbs. She settled into the slow-moving line. The boy in front of her smelled like mint shaving cream. He was tall and lean. His green uniform hung off his broad shoulders and flared out at the waist. She watched his hands fold his red beret and slide it beneath his left shoulder strap. She moved closer and inhaled. Pinned on his breast pocket were silver paratrooper wings. Around his sunburned neck was a black shoelace that held his dog tag, the silver tag secured inside a hand-sewn patch of black canvas to avoid flashing at night. He placed coffee, a carton of milk, a tin of red shoe polish and two chocolate bars on the rubber belt. She dropped her basket next to his and cleared her throat. “You home for the weekend?” she said. He didn’t react. She watched his tongue circle around his chapped lips. She remembered buying chapstick for her first boyfriend, Yossi, the last time they met. The paratrooper’s lips were thick like his. “Are you stationed in the south? You have to be careful. The desert sun is strong.” She waited for him to react. Maybe he was hard of hearing. She wanted to pry him open, listen to his stories about bullets that whizzed by his head during an ambush in Lebanon. How a small piece of shrapnel had pierced his eardrum. He would be forever damaged. “You can tell me about it,” she would say. “I’ll understand.” He’d reveal hundreds of stories during intimate nights. She would put a cigarette in his mouth and place an ashtray on his chest. Ash would hang limply from the burning paper. She would watch his lips wrap around the filter. Eventually the ash would tumble down onto the white sheet. With each moment of silence her body vibrated. She felt a hot flash rush through her cheeks. She inhaled and pushed her basket closer to his chocolate bars, her palms cold and wet with sweat. “I’m home ‘till Sunday morning,” he said. The young cashier looked at Ari. Her lips stretched tight around large, white teeth. She asked, “You want a bag?” He quickly picked up the items and stuffed them into his backpack. He arranged his gun strap across his chest. The cashier’s green eyes followed the movement of his hands. “Excuse me, you forgot this,” the cashier yelled while holding up his shoe polish. He kept walking, leaned on the glass door and stepped outside. Ilana picked up a box of Trojans from the rack and dropped it on the belt. “This too,” she said. The cashier’s lips closed quickly around her teeth. Ilana stuffed the forgotten tin into her bag, bundled her hair and tied it in a loose knot atop her head. She looked at her reflection in the glass door and stepped outside. She felt the sudden heat...