The Covenant Page 11

  The nurse, who had worked with Dr. Margulies and who was barely five feet tall in her thick-soled orthopedic shoes, reached up and took the reporter by the scruff of his neck and led him to the hall. “And if he comes back,” she told the massive security guard—a Moroccan Jew who had come from Marrakech in 1948, had fought in five wars and didn’t like little Ashkenazim or smart-ass reporters to begin with—nodded.

  In the conference room, Dr. Eliahu Gabbay, Hadassah Hospital’s director, held a news conference. He was blinded by the lights of television cameras. Everyone was there: NBC, CBS, Sky, CNN, BBC, BCN, Newsweek, the New York Times . . . Reporters from all the Israeli papers—Maariv, Yediot Aharonot, Haaretz, and the ferusalem Post—jockeyed for position in front of the foreign reporters, and were not above physically disciplining those who mistakenly perceived that their American or European network credentials somehow earned them a superior status among the locals.

  It was a zoo.

  Even before the director opened his mouth, questions began flying in all languages and all directions.

  ”Can you tell us if the rumors about a Hamas videotape showing Dr. Margulies and the child are true, and if Mrs. Margulies has seen it?” someone shouted.

  A reporter with a thick British accent raised his voice over the others, exclaiming: “Can you tell us how this has affected her medical condition? Do you expect her to lose the baby? And what about the Israeli government? Will they negotiate with the militants? Are they planning to release jailed freedom fighters . . .?”

  A shout rose up among the Israelis. “Freedom fighters? People who target two-month-old babies in carriages? Blow up six-year-olds on buses? What freedom are they fighting for anyway? Freedom to murder?”

  Dr. Gabbay held up his hands, looking like a put-upon substitute forced at short notice to teach the worst eighth-grade class in the school. “Ladies and gentlemen, please. Can I have your attention?”

  The noise level went down a notch.

  “Look, if I can’t make myself heard, I’ll just leave, and you can all go find something else to write about . . .”

  An uneasy silence ensued.

  “Thanks.” He took a deep breath. “First, I’d like to read a statement.”

  The reporters groaned, taking out cigarettes, until the guards pointed out the NO SMOKING signs.

  “Elise Margulies, wife of Dr. Jonathan Margulies,” Dr. Gabbay began, “is under careful medical surveillance to monitor the health of mother and child. We have no knowledge of any videotape. But if such a tape exists, she and her doctors would have to discuss whether it would be in her best interests psychologically, or physically, to view it at the present time. Otherwise, her health is as good as can be expected given the traumatic situation of the last twenty-four hours. Everything that can be done for her and her unborn child is being done.”

  He put away his papers, took off his reading glasses and looked up. “Now, I’m prepared to answer any questions in my area of expertise.”

  Shouts rose up all over the room.

  “Please. One at a time.” He pointed to a well-known Israeli reporter and nodded.

  “Can you tell us, Dr. Gabbay, why you are keeping Mrs. Margulies in intensive care?”

  “All information concerning Mrs. Margulies’s medical condition is strictly confidential. Next.”

  “Is it true Mrs. Margulies has already given birth and the baby is in critical condition?” another reporter shouted.

  “No. This is an unfounded rumor.”

  “Is it true that the prime minister and the army chief of staff came to see her an hour ago?”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Are the rumors true that Mrs. Margulies is furious at the Israeli government, particularly the army, for not coming to see her?” someone from CNN asked loudly.

  “This is not my area of expertise. Next.”

  “Well, maybe you could get us someone whose area of expertise it is?” the CNN reporter shot back, exasperated. Scattered clapping broke out, and a few guffaws of laughter.

  “And when are you going to let us talk to Mrs. Margulies herself? I’m sure I’m not alone when I say, with all due respect to you and the medical staff, Dr. Gabbay, that we are beginning to doubt whether our requests for interviews have been forwarded to the lady,” a British reporter accused, straightening his tie.

  The director’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry. I’m not a newsman, I’m a doctor. Mrs. Margulies’s health and the well-being of her unborn child have to take precedence over every other consideration. Interviews with her are out of the question. Now if you have nothing else you want to ask me, I’ll go back to my job, administering this hospital.”

  “What, that’s it?” some slickly dressed American network star roared.

  Julia Greenberg raised her hand. “Doctor, Julia Greenberg, BCN. Can you tell us if the tensions caused by the cycle of violence have affected your care of Palestinian patients?”

  He colored. “I resent the implication, Ms. Greenberg. Hadassah Hospital serves thousands of Arab patients. Every one of our patients gets the same respect and care. But to answer your question, yes, the care of Arab patients has been affected by the kidnapping of Dr. Margulies.”

  The room fell suddenly silent. Julia Greenberg felt a prick of satisfaction as all eyes turned in her direction.

  “Dr. Margulies was treating dozens of Palestinians for cancer, saving their lives,” Dr. Gabbay continued emotionally. “They are weeping for him and for themselves. I hope that answers your question, Ms. Greenberg. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hospital to run.”

  Julia felt her face grow hot.

  “Well, this was a waste of time,” Sean Morrison said peevishly. “I guess we might as well head back. Coming?” He turned to Julia.

  “I don’t think so. I think I’m going to talk to Elise Margulies.”

  “What? Weren’t you listening? Don’t be insane. These Israelis look serious,” he said, eyeing the automatic weapons hanging from the shoulders of the young, tight-lipped security men.

  “Eat my dust, Sean,” she said with an angelic smile, tossing back her hair.

  As she headed out of the conference room and into the halls of the hospital, she felt a hand on her shoulder. When she turned around she found herself facing a good-looking young stranger with a heavy camera hoisted to his shoulder.

  “Your question, it was good, if I might be so forward to address you,” he said with a tiny formal nod.

  Very Eastern European, the accent, she noted, examining his boyish, angular body in the worn jeans that were torn beneath his knee, and frayed to white along the pockets. The T-shirt clung comfortably to his strong, handsome chest and brown arms.

  She smiled.

  He smiled back, the downward slanting eyes in his long, lean face lighting up, the hawklike nose wrinkling with humor.

  Very Slavic, very Third World, she thought approvingly. “Why, thanks.”

  “And I thought his—that director’s—response was unnecessary. It was a legitimate question you had, so I thought. He didn’t have to be so . . . difficult about it. But these Israelis, they are difficult.”

  She laughed, self-consciously smoothing back her hair. “Well, that’s a good word for it. Difficult.” She put her hand out. “Julia Greenberg, BCN.”

  He took it warmly. “Milos Jankowski.” He smiled disarmingly, clicking his heels together, mocking himself.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Polish television; and stills for Zycie, Gazeta Wyborcza . . .”

  “That’s a mouthful.”

  “But mostly, freelancer. Documentaries.”

  “First trip to the Middle East?”

  “I was in Egypt. And Saudi Arabia. I prefer Egypt.”

  “Everyone prefers Egypt,” she agreed. “Jeddah is unbearable. Especially for women.”

  “So, you’ve been?”

  She shook her head. “They don’t let Greenbergs into Saudi Arabia. But I feel that’s their
right. Every country has its own cultural norms.”

  “Wow. That’s very . . . professional of you.”

  “But I plan to try again. After I finish here. When they become more familiar with my work.”

  “So, you think your work here will soften the Saudis’ hard line against Jewish journalists?”

  “I’m convinced of it.”

  “And what is your take on all this?”

  “If this is a kidnapping,” she said cautiously, “and—mind you—I’m not saying it is, then the Israelis won’t deal. They don’t care about individual lives here. It’s an oppressive regime.”

  He looked puzzled. “But I understand that a few years ago they let out hundreds of Muslim prisoners just to get a few of their soldiers back.”

  “Really? Uhmm. I hadn’t heard. Well, I don’t think that’s what will happen here. And Izzedine al-Qassam martyrs aren’t about to trade over a pound of flesh with Shylock . . .”

  He blinked at the metaphor. “So, you think Izzedine al-Qassam did it? Sheik Yassin, Sheik Mansour?”

  “The tape was pretty clear . . .”

  “Tape?”

  He looked so boyishly confused, she thought, relenting. “Listen, I can’t say too much about it. But the men responsible released a videotape of the doctor. I was the one they gave it to. We’re planning to air it tonight. It’s an exclusive, so you have to swear not to say a word to anyone. There are rumors, of course. You heard the questions . . . Even Mrs. Margulies doesn’t know yet. I was trying to arrange a deal to show it to her privately, but the doctors and the army weren’t having any of it.”

  “So it’s not a rumor then? It’s really true! That must have been frightening. Being with the terrorists. Getting the tape.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I dislike the word ‘terrorists.’ It’s so judgmental. And no one will get hurt if the Israelis release their friends from jail.”

  “So he looks as if he’s being well treated, he and the child? That no violence has been used on them?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that’s going a bit far. These are not nice people. Revolutionaries seldom are.”

  “So, this is a revolution? From what to what?”

  “For freedom!”

  “Well, if that’s true it will be amazing. Palestine will be the first country in the world run by Muslim fundamentalists that embraces freedom as a value . . .”

  “Are you being ironic?” she said, pursing her lips. She was intrigued. Eastern Europeans were usually much further to the left than she was. Where was he going with all this?

  He smiled. “Listen, Julia, could I interview you about what that was like, getting the tape?”

  “Interview me?” she said, surprised and flattered.

  “Yes! Our Polish viewers are very interested in this case. You know, a doctor. A young child.”

  “Look, Milos, thanks but I’m not really all that important . . .”

  He stopped and reached out to her, squeezing her shoulder. “But you are. You are incredibly important, Julia. It’s the first break in the case, and you got it.”

  His hand was warm and promising. And what he said was absolutely true. She was important. And in a few hours, everyone would know it.

  “Well, if you swear it will only be broadcast in Poland, and not before the nine o’clock news . . .”

  He hoisted the camera to his shoulder, aiming the lights in her direction. “Really, Milos.” She patted down her hair and straightened her blouse. “Do you think they’d be interested? In Poland?”

  He smiled. “You have no idea.”

  “Milos?”

  “Babcia?”

  “Where are you?”

  ”In Jerusalem. I arrived safely. Call your friend Mrs. Gold and tell her. I just finished a news conference.”

  “So, you had the luck?”

  “Why are you talking to me in English?” He laughed.

  “I talk English? It is habit. When I dial long distance . . .” she said, switching to Polish.

  “So, what did you find out?”

  “I’ve only been here two hours, Grandmother . . .! But, you know what, maybe. I found a reporter who got the videotape of Leah’s family. It looks like a kidnapping.”

  “Jesus watch over us . . . What did she tell you, the girl?”

  “How’d you know the reporter was a girl?”

  “Who else would want to give you information, wnuk?”

  He laughed. “She’s a girl, all right. British. And, actually, she didn’t give me much.”

  “You have to find out who gave her the tape. And who arranged it. And where she got it, the place . . .”

  “You mean her sources? She’s a reporter. She’ll never tell me that. Anyhow, I just met her. And there’s a limit to what I can do. I’m not exactly Brad Pitt . . .”

  “Pit?”

  “Not a fruit pit. An American movie star.”

  “You’re better. You’re a European moviemaker. Much sexier. A British girl isn’t used to such a virile man. British men are like old socks.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He grinned. “I’ll do what I can. Please don’t drive me crazy.”

  “Just remember what I did to save lives during the war.”

  He was suddenly serious. “Who could ever forget that, Babcia?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hadassah Hospital, Jerusalem

  Wednesday, May 8, 2002

  10:00 A.M.

  “PLEASE, I’M AN old woman, and I’ve been on a horrible ten-hour flight. I’m tired, and my Hebrew isn’t good . . . “ Leah explained to the Hadassah Hospital security guard.

  The man shook his head impatiently. “No, English,” he said in English. “No visiting hour.” He waved his hand.

  “Look, mister, I’m not moving until you get me someone to help me. My granddaughter, Elise Margulies, is in the intensive care. She’s having a baby. You understand? Dr. Jonathan Margulies’s wife, Elise . . .!”

  The busy nurse passing by caught the end of the sentence. She stopped and stared. “You are Elise’s—”

  “Bubbee, her Savta, as you Israelis say . . .”

  “Can I help you, Savta?”

  “Oh, honey. God bless you. Yes, please, my feet are killing me . . . these guards don’t understand English. I took a taxi from the airport. I shlepped my luggage. They are probably going to blow it up if I leave it here, right? I’m so tired.”

  “Please, Savta, sit down. I’ll get someone to help you.” The nurse took her over to a chair, then hurried off, filled with excitement, worry and good intentions.

  Leah leaned back, exhausted, listening to the discussion in rapid-fire Hebrew that was taking place all around her. She tried to catch a few words, but it was as bad as Puerto Rican Spanish, and as unintelligible to the nonnative speaker. What a tzimmisl Here she was, in only a few hours. Go in one door in New York and come out another in Tel Aviv. Life is like a dream. But, as my mother used to say, a good dream is still better than a nightmare.

  “Excuse me, Mrs.—?” The kind nurse was back, smiling at her.

  “Helfgott. Leah Rabinowitz Helfgott.” She smiled back gratefully.

  “Mrs. Helfgott. This is our hospital administrator. He will help you.”

  Leah reached up and caressed the pretty, soft face of the Israeli nurse: a Jewish nurse in a Jewish hospital in a Jewish country. She felt tears well. “Thank you, darling. God bless you.”

  The young woman took her hand and squeezed it gently. “God bless your family,” she whispered, her eyes brimming.

  “Mrs. Helfgott . . . Leah, I’m Doctor Gabbay. How can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Elise.”

  “Of course. But she’s resting right now, and you look as if you could use a rest too.”

  “Look, Doctor, I don’t want to fight. I know you Israelis—you are all soldiers. They let you out after three years, but you go back every year, and when there’s a war, you all go in and fight until it’s ove
r . . . I’m right?”

  Doctor Gabbay smiled. “You’re right.”

  “So, I don’t start up with Israeli soldiers. But I must tell you I have a heart condition, and if you don’t let me see my Elise, even just to peek in if she’s sleeping, you might have two intensive-care patients on your hands.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and waited.

  “Shoshana,” he told the nurse. “Would you be kind enough to take Mrs. Helfgott to see Elise? But please, only for a few minutes.”

  The nurse nodded. “Doctor, what about the luggage?”

  He looked at the two enormous suitcases, the wig box, the plastic bags . . . “And call an orderly, and tell him to put all this in my office.”

  “Thank you. You’re a nice Jewish doctor. Tell your mother I said so. A broocha on your kepeleh.”

  “Come in later if you want to talk.” He nodded, trying to look serious. He was going to tell his mother. The first chance he got.

  She got up heavily, tucking the young nurse’s arm beneath her own. Slowly, she walked through the crowded hospital corridors, glancing in wonder at the mass of electronic equipment in the lobby, as the media kept its vigil, like vultures, she thought, hoping the hostility pouring out of her veins at the newsmen would act like the valve on a pressure cooker, and by the time she reached Elise she’d be calm and smiling and encouraging. As she neared the room, she felt her legs drag reluctantly, making her pace even slower.

  Walking through the snow in bandaged, swollen feet, the guards with cocked pistols waiting for you to falter. You couldn’t falter, your life depended on it. And so you walked, day after day, hour after hour, when you wanted to lie down and close your eyes, because you wanted to live, to accomplish something for the people you loved.

  “At rotza lanuach, Savta?” the nurse asked.

  Leah patted her arm, not understanding a word, but grateful for the concern in her tone. She was already in love with her, this Israeli nurse, who helped sick Israelis get well.

  “Shoshana means a rose, doesn’t it?” Leah patted the nurse’s cheeks. “Don’t worry. I’ve got energy. For this, I’ve got energy.”