Martyrs’ Crossing Read Online Free PDF Page A

THE WATCHTOWER parapet, two soldiers leaned against the sides of the opening. They were watching her. Marina’s arms were beginning to ache. Ibrahim, almost two and a half years old, was heavy. The watchtower seemed far away as she half walked, half ran toward it, going as fast as she could. The sun had set over the photocopy shop. She imagined again what her father would have to say about her finding herself in this situation. He believed she never planned anything properly. He believed she was still a sloppy teenager living in a room piled high with dirty clothing. He would find the bare foot too degrading in this situation. He would be annoyed to find she had gotten herself into this fix. And he would not be interested in the fact that it was probably inescapable.
    Just a few more meters, and she could begin the battle to get the attention of the checkpoint guards. A half dozen or so other people were already sitting on a bench, waiting. The setting sun left a strip of pale pink floating on the horizon behind the checkpoint, and night arrived, abruptly. A lacy drizzle was falling.
    In the shadow of the watchtower, Marina sat down on the bench, squeezing between two elderly men in traditional robes. She set her bag down between their walking sticks. She wanted to check Ibrahim before she brought him over to the guardroom, see if she could get him to use the inhaler. Through the rain, the one small bulb in the checkpoint trailer sparkled like a star.
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    G EORGE SET DOWN his cup, and experimented with putting his left leg over his right, instead of his right over the left. It relieved the deadening somewhat, he thought. He regained a painful contact with his left foot. He sipped at his coffee, so unlike Marina’s. Second set: Czech down two games to love. Hers was really good, boiled over charcoal on the grill, fragrant with cardamom and thick with sugar and the sediment of ground coffee. It was heavy with the taste of home. So Arab. “Si arabe,” as Ahmed would say breathily, laughing, imitating an old French flame of his who had been infatuated with the desert peoples. How had Marina become such an authentic Palestinian all of a sudden?
    They had never drunk coffee like that while she was growing up in Cambridge. It must have been the husband’s influence or the influence of geography. Or her new religion, George thought grimly. The Raads were secular Palestinian Christians; his daughter had made a conversion to Islam. The girl he remembered and the new religion did not seem to go together, but she had done it for love. Perhaps that explained it.
    On this last trip to Ramallah, he and Marina had sat out on the roof and drunk her coffee together. She complained too much about the Israelis.
    â€œThey are so arrogant at the checkpoint,” she said. She poured more coffee. Ibrahim climbed down from her lap. “It’s such a frustrating experience, every time.”
    â€œIt’s meant to be. It’s meant to teach you a lesson.”
    George shook his head, remembering the conversation. The Israelis did stupid things, pointless things. What did Marina expect, fellowship, respect? They were a rude and thoughtless people, at best. We are enemies, she knew that. But she’d been worried that with the growing unrest, it might become more difficult to get through for an appointment at the hospital. She already needed medical documents, a doctor’s note, et cetera.
    George recalled how he’d tuned her out and had begun wondering about the solar panels on the neighbors’ roofs. He couldn’t listen long to Marina’s analysis of The Cause because to him she seemed such a novice. Her observations—he could have made them at the age of eight, as he bounced into Jordan from Palestine, sitting on a suitcase in the backseat of Grandfather’s motorcar.
    From Marina’s roof in Ramallah, he’d noticed an old, rusty bedspring on the