his navel.
“I have so many things in my mind,” he said softly. “My mother. My father. Everything I want to do for the faith.”
Dread. Why did he have such a feeling of dread? For three years, he’d wandered the hallways of this school, thinking he’d like to machine-gun everyone there. Now he had a chance to do it, and for a greater cause, something bigger than himself. And yet his nerve was leaving him again.
“You know, you can get up and walk away this very minute.” Youssef put the burger down and stared at him. “No problem.” He reached for the bag at his feet. “I can just stop the timer where it is. We still have almost seventeen minutes.”
Nasser looked at the remaining french fries in his bag and felt the rusty key resting against his chest. He was afraid to say anything.
“Just let me ask you one thing, though,” said Youssef. “How long were you in the Ashkelon prison?”
“Almost two hundred days.”
“And how did you like it there? Didn’t you tell me how they tortured you to get you to confess and name your friends? Didn’t they give you the freezing water?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t they put you in the banana position?”
“Of course.” Nasser still could feel his spine threatening to break from the unrelenting pressure.
“And what about the bag?” Youssef asked. “Didn’t they put the bag on you?”
Nasser nodded, experiencing that flush of nausea all over again. The bag. It was made of brown sack material and smelled strongly of feces. He was in an outdoor prison yard shackled and rear-cuffed in a backless chair when the Israeli guards stuck it over his head. For two or three hours, he sat there baking in the Jewish sun, breathing in the vile fumes, sweating and getting sicker and sicker. His joints aching. Wondering how he would survive this. At one point, he turned a little in his seat and one of the guards hit him so hard on top of the head that he saw a flash of light. That was when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, that he would throw up and die right there in the chair surrounded by concrete walls and barbed wire. But he didn’t die. And after a while, all the pain and discomfort became relative and he willed himself into a state of numbness. That was how he got through it. By promising himself he would never feel anything ever again.
“Just remember, my friend,” Youssef was saying. “The Book said it best: sometimes you must fight when it is the thing you least want to do.”
Outside, ocean breezes stirred the banners of the closed-up amusement arcades, and the sounds of carpenters’ hammers echoed down the boardwalk. Nasser slowly turned and looked at the Great Bear. The scars. Youssef was covered in scars. The one under his eye and the other one up and down his chest. And then the knuckles, which were like painfully swollen bulbs. His entire body was a record of the things he’d done. Nasser’s own father had no scars like this, because he’d never fought for anything. He’d been too busy running away, crossing rivers.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”
He decided he was going to have to stop feeling again, to stop thinking. This must be how all the brave men got from one side of an experience to the other. You had to turn yourself into a machine. Wasn’t it all for a higher purpose anyway? You were but a tool in the hand of God, and if God wanted to stop you, He would.
“Fine.” Youssef picked up the book bag and set it on Nasser’s lap. “Then you know what to do. When the alarm clock completes its circuit, the hadduta will go off. Don’t jostle it around too much and don’t stop to talk to anyone you know. Trust in God and think like a gun.”
He reached across Nasser and pushed the door open onto the clear blue afternoon.
Up on the fourth floor, David Fitzgerald emerged from the bathroom, still feeling hungover and sick to his stomach. He’d stayed up late the night before, drinking and worrying—as he’d
“I have so many things in my mind,” he said softly. “My mother. My father. Everything I want to do for the faith.”
Dread. Why did he have such a feeling of dread? For three years, he’d wandered the hallways of this school, thinking he’d like to machine-gun everyone there. Now he had a chance to do it, and for a greater cause, something bigger than himself. And yet his nerve was leaving him again.
“You know, you can get up and walk away this very minute.” Youssef put the burger down and stared at him. “No problem.” He reached for the bag at his feet. “I can just stop the timer where it is. We still have almost seventeen minutes.”
Nasser looked at the remaining french fries in his bag and felt the rusty key resting against his chest. He was afraid to say anything.
“Just let me ask you one thing, though,” said Youssef. “How long were you in the Ashkelon prison?”
“Almost two hundred days.”
“And how did you like it there? Didn’t you tell me how they tortured you to get you to confess and name your friends? Didn’t they give you the freezing water?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t they put you in the banana position?”
“Of course.” Nasser still could feel his spine threatening to break from the unrelenting pressure.
“And what about the bag?” Youssef asked. “Didn’t they put the bag on you?”
Nasser nodded, experiencing that flush of nausea all over again. The bag. It was made of brown sack material and smelled strongly of feces. He was in an outdoor prison yard shackled and rear-cuffed in a backless chair when the Israeli guards stuck it over his head. For two or three hours, he sat there baking in the Jewish sun, breathing in the vile fumes, sweating and getting sicker and sicker. His joints aching. Wondering how he would survive this. At one point, he turned a little in his seat and one of the guards hit him so hard on top of the head that he saw a flash of light. That was when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, that he would throw up and die right there in the chair surrounded by concrete walls and barbed wire. But he didn’t die. And after a while, all the pain and discomfort became relative and he willed himself into a state of numbness. That was how he got through it. By promising himself he would never feel anything ever again.
“Just remember, my friend,” Youssef was saying. “The Book said it best: sometimes you must fight when it is the thing you least want to do.”
Outside, ocean breezes stirred the banners of the closed-up amusement arcades, and the sounds of carpenters’ hammers echoed down the boardwalk. Nasser slowly turned and looked at the Great Bear. The scars. Youssef was covered in scars. The one under his eye and the other one up and down his chest. And then the knuckles, which were like painfully swollen bulbs. His entire body was a record of the things he’d done. Nasser’s own father had no scars like this, because he’d never fought for anything. He’d been too busy running away, crossing rivers.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”
He decided he was going to have to stop feeling again, to stop thinking. This must be how all the brave men got from one side of an experience to the other. You had to turn yourself into a machine. Wasn’t it all for a higher purpose anyway? You were but a tool in the hand of God, and if God wanted to stop you, He would.
“Fine.” Youssef picked up the book bag and set it on Nasser’s lap. “Then you know what to do. When the alarm clock completes its circuit, the hadduta will go off. Don’t jostle it around too much and don’t stop to talk to anyone you know. Trust in God and think like a gun.”
He reached across Nasser and pushed the door open onto the clear blue afternoon.
Up on the fourth floor, David Fitzgerald emerged from the bathroom, still feeling hungover and sick to his stomach. He’d stayed up late the night before, drinking and worrying—as he’d
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