CHAPTER 11
Dear Dad and Mom
By the time you get this, I will be in Israel. Because of the work I’ve been doing this summer, I was offered a position in a work-study program at Tel Aviv University in the field of genetics. It’s a wonderful opportunity, but the window for acceptance was very short, so I basically had to decide today whether or not I was going to take it. I accepted the offer, because I have found a passion for working in genetics and hopefully will be in a position before long to do research into new cures for diseases.
I did not call you, Dad, not only because of the short time frame I had to make the decision, but also because I knew you would try to talk me out of it. This is what I have decided to do with my life, Dad, to explore the complexity of human life as created by haShem. I ask that you please respect that.
Mom, I know this probably upsets you, but just take some comfort in the fact that I’ll be among millions of Jewish girls. Perhaps I’ll find one for me there.
I am taking my cell phone with me, so I will call you soon. You’ll be able to call me and I’ll be able to call you. Just be aware that this will be an international call and won’t be covered by your US phone plan. Expensive, in other words. Email will be easier and cheaper.
I’ve already made arrangements to dispose of my apartment and my stuff, so don’t worry about that. I’m sending a notification to UCLA that I won’t be back to school, so that will be taken care of also.
This isn’t a big secret, so you can tell your friends and our family about it. And greet Rabbi Joshua at Congregation Beth Shalom for me.
Again, I’m sorry this is so sudden and undoubtedly comes as such a shock, but I really did have to make the decision in like 30 minutes. This is what I want to do. This is what I feel called to do. Please understand that.
Love you both.
Chaim
* * *
Dear Rabbi Levinson
I want to take this opportunity to thank you for everything you did to help me deal with my situation. You went way out of your way to try and find me help, and the help that you found me turned out to be very good, very helpful indeed. Again, thank you.
I can no longer return home, for various and many reasons which you might be able to imagine. Likewise, for essentially those same reasons, I am relocating to another country. This is related to the work I have been part of for the last few months. It is important and meaningful work, but it is likewise work that would not be available to me if it weren’t for my situation and those you put me in contact with. So thank you a third time.
Because of my situation, it is most unlikely that we will ever be in contact again. I will remember you with great fondness, however, for what promises to be a very long time. Please continue to be the wise and compassionate man that you are, and please continue to help those you can help, even if they are as weird as I was—am.
It is possible that you may hear something of me in the future. Remember my situation, and recall that haShem does upon occasion take his chosen ones to strange and unexpected callings.
In closing, let me offer to you and for you this prayer from the siddur and from Torah:
May the Lord bless you and keep you
May the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you
May the Lord turn his face toward you and grant you peace
Shalom
Chaim Caan
* * *
Karli—
Just a note to fill you in on what’s happened with me. That job that I left you at the last minute to take has turned into a gold mine. I’m enrolled at a work-study program in Israel, can you believe it? I’ll be studying genetics, which I’ve decided is very cool and should be my life’s work. But my deadline to decide to take it was just as short as the deadline to take the job with the medical research project, so I’m already in Israel. Where things are just a bit different than they are in California. Funny how that works.
Anyway, tell everybody hi for me, and that I’m thinking about them. I’ll try to drop you another line later.
Ta.
Chaim
* * *
Chaim looked at his face in the hotel-room mirror, then compared it to the photo on the California driver’s license he held in his hand. Even making allowance for the abysmal quality of the photo, there was a definite difference in appearance, even more marked than he had noted in the past. The picture showed a pudgy round-faced boy with a goofy smile. The mirror reflection showed a face that was anything but pudgy—still kind of round, but with sharp edges to cheek and jaw, and a nose that reminded Chaim not so much of his father or grandfather but of his great-grandfather—almost hawkish. He could see a family resemblance, but even he, knowing the truth, wouldn’t have said the one image was the same person as the other.
He sighed, then turned back to the small table that was in the room. It was a nice hotel room. Spacious enough for a king-sized bed, a small desk, and a small round table with four chairs. The TV that hung on the wall was larger than his parents’ fifty-inch TV, if not quite as nice as the TV he’d had at the study facility, and it overpowered the rest of the room. Chaim left it off most of the time, preferring to use his laptop to stay connected to reality.
Tucking the license back into his wallet, he was shoving that into his jeans hip pocket when there was a knock at the door. He stepped over and looked at the security panel, which showed what he expected—Mordechai Zalman with a small bag in his hand and what looked like an older government functionary of some kind with an attaché case. He opened the door, and they entered.
“Chaim”—Mordechai waved his hand at the other man—“this is Yaakov Ashkenazi. Yaakov, this is Chaim Caan—at least for the next little while.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Yaakov’s English carried a thick accent.
“Likewise,” Chaim said.
“So, let’s sit down and get this over with.” Mordechai pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Yaakov and Chaim followed suit.
Yaakov set his attaché case on the table and opened it long enough to take out a folder. Closing the case, he placed the folder on the table before him and rested his folded hands on top of it.
“Are you certain you want to do this?” Yaakov’s face was set in serious lines. But from the looks of his face, that was probably his default expression.
“Yes.” Chaim nodded.
“This is an irrevocable step,” the other man warned. “Once taken, it cannot be undone. Think very carefully before you go any farther.”
Rising in Chaim’s mind were the memories of the phone calls he had had with his parents, and the emails they had exchanged—the confusion and anger in his father’s voice, and the confusion and histrionics from his mother. If that was how they reacted to him leaving California and moving to Israel, how would they react to the truth of his situation? He shook his head, then looked up. “I have thought about it. This is the best thing I can do.”
Yaakov looked at Chaim, glanced at Mordechai, then looked back. “Very well, then.”
He opened the folder. “You are now the person Ariel Barak.”
Chaim absorbed that. Ariel, meaning Lion of God. A fairly common name in Israel today, he thought. It was well-thought of, having been the name of a popular prime minister. And Barak, meaning Lightning, a name from scripture—the name of a famous general in history, as well as being the surname of a different prime minister. Ariel Barak. He liked the sound of that. He gave a definite nod.
“First, you are now a recent immigrant. Here is the background you need to know about your identity. It is, by nature, somewhat sketchy, so it would be best if you don’t get into many conversations about your history. We did make you American, so that your cultural background and associations and speech patterns should still work for you.” Yaakov passed a single piece of paper to Chaim. “There is no way you could pass for a sabra, a native-born, but since about twenty-five percent of all Jews living in Israel today are immigrants, you will not attract attention. You will be just one more among millions, many of whom are reticent to speak about their past.
“Second, here is your Israeli ID card. Keep that with you at all times. If you’re asked to present it and you don’t have it, things could get awkward and unpleasant.
“Third, here is your Israeli driver’s license. This is not your ID card, so keep the two straight. Since both your actual and your new background are American, if you drive, you shouldn’t have much trouble. Just keep to the right.”
Chaim looked at the two cards. He knew it would feel a bit weird to not produce the driver’s license as ID, but he suspected it wouldn’t take long to get used to it. The picture in both was the same and was very recent, showing his new leaner look. It still took him aback to see that hawkish face looking back at him. Both seemed to have biometric data included.
Yaakov slid a small blue folder across the table. “Fourth, here is your Israeli passport.”
Chaim—Ariel—picked it up and opened it. It used the same picture as the ID card, and it also contained biometric data.
“Fifth,” Yaakov said, “here is your new mobile phone.” Yaakov opened his case again and placed a phone in a plastic bag on the table. “It is a similar model to your previous unit.
“And last but not least, we will open an account for you with a branch of Bank Leumi. It will have the equivalent of one thousand US dollars in it to begin with.” Yaakov slid a card across the table. “This is your signature card for the account. Please sign it, Mr. Barak.”
Ariel—he was going to have to get used to the new name—took the proffered pen, thought about it, and carefully signed Ariel Barak in the appropriate space on the card. As he pushed the card and pen back across the table, he made a note that he needed to practice his new signature.
Yaakov placed the card in his folder, then pulled out his own mobile and tapped an icon before holding it up to his ear. After a moment, he said, “Chana? Yaakov. On the matter of Ariel Barak—go.” He terminated the call and put the mobile back in his pocket.
“Your account will be active in twenty-four hours,” Yaakov said. “Here is the account information”—he passed over a small card with numbers on it—“and here is your debit MasterCard to access the account.” The colorful piece of plastic slid across the table and stopped against the passport. “Your salary from whatever work you end up doing will be transferred to this account automatically.”
Yaakov placed his folder in the case, and folded his hands on the table.
“Do you have any questions?”
Ariel shook his head. “I’m sure I’ll think of some later, but none now.”
“My number is in your phone. Call me if you think of anything. Meanwhile, I need to collect your old wallet and contents, your US passport, your old phone, and your watch, please.”
Ariel stood, pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. He pulled the US currency—a few hundred dollars—from his wallet and held it up, raising his eyebrows.
“Keep it,” Mordechai said. “We’ll also get the funds from your US bank account and put them in your new account.”
Ariel nodded, pulled his new passport from his shirt pocket and stashed the cash there, then laid the wallet and old passport on the table. He stepped over to the dresser, gathered up his phone and his watch, and added them to the pile.
“What about my laptop?” he asked.
“I’ll take care of that,” Mordechai answered.
Ariel shrugged, and watched Yaakov place all the components of his old life in a plastic bag.
“Do you have anything else with personal information on it?” Yaakov looked up. “Plane ticket? Bus card? Jewelry? Car rental contract or receipts?”
Ariel looked around. “No. No plane ticket. The credit card receipts I have are in the wallet. Other than that, nothing.”
Yaakov sealed the bag, placed it in his case, and closed it. He looked at Mordechai. “Call me if you find anything else.” Mordechai nodded but said nothing. Yaakov took his attaché case in his left hand and held the right out to Ariel. “I hope things go well for you, young man. Blessings on you. Shalom.”
A moment later, Ariel was alone in the room with Mordechai, who smiled a gentle smile at him. “Right or wrong, you’ve done it. You’ve taken the step. How do you feel?”
Ariel shrugged. “Honestly, I’m numb and weary. Ask me tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.”
Mordechai stood and put his bag on the table. Opening the top, he handed a wallet to Ariel. “That’s as close to what you had as I could find.”
Ariel looked at it. “That’s fine.” He felt it. “That’s good leather—better than my old one.” He reached out and slotted the new cards into the wallet, added his US cash, then laid it back on the table by the phone.
Next out of the bag was a watch. “Again, as close as I could find to your old one. Pretty inexpensive.”
“I don’t wear expensive watches,” Ariel said. “Every good watch I’ve ever been given stopped running inside of four months. Every single one of them. But a cheap Casio or Timex will last me for five years or more.” He slipped the watch on his wrist. “Hmm. Eight-thirty…or should I say twenty-thirty?”
“Either one,” Mordechai said. “Official Israeli time is 24-hour, but a lot of people still talk the 12-hour clock.” He stuck a hand into the bag, then pulled it out and handed the bag to Ariel. “Here. Go change into these.”
Ariel came out of the bathroom a few minutes later and threw the clothes he had been wearing on the bed. New Adidas on his feet, black slacks, dark blue polo shirt, black windbreaker. He used that moment of action to slip Elena Ramirez’s picture and funeral program out of his old windbreaker pocket and into his new one. “I haven’t felt this preppy since tenth grade,” he said with a grin. “I am going to have to learn how sizes work over here, though. None of the labels made any sense to me.”
Mordechai chuckled. “One of the joys of setting up housekeeping in a new country. I’m sure you’ll manage. The shopkeepers are used to it. Now, gather up your laptop, and let’s go.”
Ariel slipped the laptop into its backpack, storing the charger and cords in a side pocket and looping the headphones around his neck. Once that was on his shoulder, he stuffed the wallet and passport in his hip pockets, the phone in one of his front pockets, and folded up the paper and put it in the other front pocket.
He picked up a pair of boots and looked up at Mordechai with a hint of defiance. “I’m taking my Doc Martens. They’re all broken in, and I don’t want to start over with a new pair.”
Mordechai smiled. “Fine. They’re generic enough that no one will notice.”
Ariel picked up the empty bag and tucked the boots into it. He looked around. “Do we need to do anything with the rest of this?”
Mordechai shook his head. “Someone will be by in a few minutes to clean up. I assume there’s nothing else here you’ll miss greatly?”
Ariel shook his head in turn. “No, not really.”
“Good enough. Let’s be on our way, then.
Ariel followed the older man out the door, letting it close behind him with a pang as it shut on his old life forever.