The Clay Urn Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Paul Rabinowitz Cover art by Sydney Prusso Author photo by Melissa Efrus

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020933119

  ISBN: 978-1-59948-787-8

  eISBN: 978-1-09833-137-5

  Produced in the United States of America

  Mint Hill Books

  Main Street Rag Publishing Company PO Box 690100

  Charlotte, NC 28227

  www.MainStreetRag.com

  For my mother

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  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 of the midday sun on her skin. She exhaled, walked up to Ari and removed the tin of red shoe polish from her plastic bag. Their eyes met.

  “You forgot this,” she said.

  “I didn’t sleep much last night. I’m a bit out of it.”

  “You think a coffee might help?”

  They walked slowly to the bustling outdoor mall on Ben Yehuda Street, and Ari told her he’d just returned home from a week of intense training. She was aware of the gliding rhythm of his body, the gentle tapping of his boots on the ancient sidewalks. They found a table at a café. She took out a cigarette. He struck the sandpaper strip. She inhaled. Two female soldiers sipped cappuccinos at the table next to them. Compact machine guns rested on their laps. The one with dark eyebrows and light blue eyes wiped a layer of foam from her upper lip. Her friend laughed. A tank commander at the table next to them rose from his seat and hugged another soldier. He laughed and slapped his back. They called each other ‘brother’ and hugged again.

  “I’m gonna look at the pastries,” Ari said. “Can I get you something?”

  “I’m good,” she said.

  He adjusted his gun strap and faded into the darkness of the café. The female soldier with the dark eyebrows got up from their table and followed Ari. Her friend chuckled. Ilana opened her sketchbook and moved her pencil in quick gestures over the page to capture the frenetic pace of the street scene. A young mother pushed a baby stroller towards a group of people sitting at the table across from Ilana. The mother’s eyes locked in on a slender woman with green eyes and long, dark curly hair.

  “If you want my husband you take this as well,” she yelled and jerked the handle of the stroller towards her. The wheels twisted in all directions. Ilana turned the page and sketched the woman with green eyes sprawled across a bed, her hair tangled around a pillow, her smooth flesh illuminated by the light of the rising sun. She looked up and saw Ari holding two plates and speaking with the female soldier. Ilana closed her sketchbook and dragged on her cigarette.

  “I bought you a croissant,” he said after he came back to the table.

  “Thanks. But I’m not hungry. You eat it.”

  The pastry looked small in his hand and he devoured it quickly.

  “Where are you stationed?” Ilana asked. “Gaza.”

  “So far, so good?”

  “No. It was a bad week.”

  She studied the lines on his forehead.

  “I was also in Gaza for a month before being transferred,” Ilana said. “Near Khan Yunis.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was a social worker. My first assignment was with a Golani infantry company. It was tough for me. I didn’t really understand much. They took advantage. They were good soldiers, but tough. Tougher than me.”

  Ari grinned.

  “You said you had a bad week. I’m a good person to talk to.”

  His grin faded as he lowered his gaze and stared at her pack of cigarettes. She looked at his dark eyes and remembered Yossi and her last conversation with him a year ago. He had only eight weeks left to serve. They were planning a weekend away in the Galilee so he could unwind. They had a small inn picked out near Safed. They would hike in the morning, visit the artists’ colony in the afternoon and watch the sunset over Mount Meron. She felt a pain in her throat and recalled the conversation at his funeral with Amos, the company commander.

  “The weather was real bad,” Amos explained. “The driver couldn’t see a thing.”

  Ilana understood that the mission they were undertaking deep into Lebanon near the Litani River was dangerous. Traversing mountainous terrain in the middle of winter with flash flooding brought additional challenges for the reconnaissance soldiers and their jeeps.

  At the funeral, Ilana stared at Yossi’s mother. Tears dripped down her face and rolled into crevices around her mouth as the baby that suckled her breasts was being lowered into the hard earth. Yossi’s mother understood that in this tiny country, survival depended on service. Few questioned the reasoning. A steering wheel turned one inch away from the edge of the cliff would have extended his life. The jeep would have continued on solid ground. The reconnaissance unit would have returned to their base. Yossi would have come home at the end of the month. They would’ve met up with their friends and had coffee at their favorite café. They’d laugh and drink late into the night. The girls would talk about their bases, their commanders, their crushes and loves. They’d have discussed traveling to countries with exotic foods and endless beaches. A chance to breathe. But the driver had turned the wheel one inch in the wrong direction. The soldiers in the other jeeps had watched in shock, listening to the chorus of clanging metal: the last sound Yossi would hear. They shoveled loose dirt onto the lid of the simple, pine box. His mother inhaled tiny breaths.

  Can I take one of those cigarettes?” Ari asked.

  Ilana looked down at his hands. She wanted to lay her palm over his fingers and let the warmth of her blood spread over his skin. This is what she couldn’t do for Yossi. She would fill Ari’s life with new memories—their first kiss, the lasting fragrance of her hair, a white dress hanging in a bridal shop window. “You seem like you’re deep in thought,” Ari said. “You want to get the check?”

  She ripped off the last match and let the spark ignite the tip. He wrapped his lips around the cigarette and inhaled. “No,” Ilana said. “I’m good.”

  They decided to meet again in a month at Ilana’s friend’s kibbutz on the shores of the Dead Sea. She called Ari at his base to confirm that he’d be getting out. As Friday approached, she became giddy and sketched self-portraits while looking in the mirror. She went with her mother to have her hair trimmed and then to the mall at Dizengoff Center to shop for treats that Ari could take back to his base and share with his platoon brothers. She passed a boutique store that specializes in hats.

  Ilana tried on each one.

  “It’s the desert, dear,” her mother said. “I don’t think it really matters what it looks like as long as it blocks the sun.”

  She twisted her body into the narrow mirror to see her full reflection before settling on a pink hat with a wide brim. She tucked her hair under the hat and pulled the brim over one eye.

  “I love it.”

  “It’s expensive. This guy better be worth it.”

  I
lana took the bus from Tel Aviv and transferred in Jerusalem to the Dead Sea. She waited for Ari at the bus stop along the main road near the entrance to Kibbutz Kalya. The cement shelter shaded her from the blistering afternoon sun. She wondered how many times he read the letter she sent to him two weeks ago. Before she had dropped it in the mail she kissed it and rubbed it on her cheek. She used her best sketch paper. She liked the way her pen imbedded the ink into the soft fabric. She added words that made him think about her and what could happen if they met again. She folded it into four parts and put it inside her handmade envelope. She had added a line at the end about buying him shoe polish. She was curious if he laughed aloud and explained the joke to his friends in the unit.

  “Ah, she’s cool,” he would say.

  A car zoomed by and churned up pink sandstone dust that caked onto her skin and eyes. Rain had drizzled down only once that year and lasted for an hour. At the lowest point on earth, water receded quickly and left dense salt deposits in its trail. Ilana took out her pencils and sketched the mushroom- like formations. On a barren cliff high above the shoreline two young ibex balanced on a rocky slope. Shadows and light moved across the ridges and entered into crevices. At weak points, the sandstone cliffs gave way and exposed aquifers. Water streamed through the cracks and pooled at the bottom of the cliff. Dense plants grew along the pools and formed an oasis of date trees and native bushes. She sketched a reflection of Ari’s face staring into the pool. His eyes looked concerned, lips stretched tight around his mouth.

  In the distance, a bus appeared to float atop the ripples of the hot, black road. Ilana inhaled. The bus jerked to a halt. A group of tourists and soldiers jumped down from the step, but Ari was not among them. The bus pulled away and left behind a trail of black fumes and hot air. Ilana felt her throat tighten. She exhaled and jumped down from her cement perch. She removed her floppy hat, threw her sketchpad into her pouch and walked toward the kibbutz gate. Suddenly, she heard the bus pull to the side of the road. The brake lights flashed and the door opened. Ari ran out towards her.