An Independent Woman (34 page)

Expecting the walled Jerusalem of the illustrations he had seen, Philip was amazed at the city that appeared, new high-rise apartment houses, tree-lined streets, smart shops, and rows of well-built homes. They finally approached the King David Hotel, swung around, and were at the Mishkenot, a high wall and a pair of large glass doors facing the street. Barbara and Philip said good-bye to Ezra, their driver, who had given them the titles and subtitles of every village they had passed; they thanked him and persuaded him to accept a twenty-dollar bill.

“Enjoy,” he told them. “It's a beautiful city.”

A young woman rose from behind her desk in the lobby, which was a broad, comfortable room, and told them that her name was Sarah, that she was the day attendant, and that they should call on her for anything they required. She had been expecting them, and since they must be tired, she would take them to their apartment immediately. Sarah spoke a British-accented English as if she had been born to it—she was native to Israel, they learned—an accent they were to hear frequently.

A young man carried their luggage. The apartment, a duplex with a large living room and a kitchen on the first floor and two bedrooms above, had walls of stone, and the floor, too, was stone. As Barbara closed the door behind Sarah, she heard Philip exclaim, “Barbara! Barbara, come look!”

He was standing at a glass door that opened onto a balcony; and joining him Barbara saw, below and across a valley, the Old City of Jerusalem—crenellated walls, towers and pinnacles of churches, and the glistening Dome of the Rock, all of it there as if it had been painted in a large panorama, the walls golden in the light of the setting sun.

“I hadn't dreamed,” Philip whispered.

“You were so disappointed in the New City.”

“Yes, I thought the old place was gone—but there it is across the valley, so close we could almost reach out and touch it. I can see Jesus riding up to that gate. It's all there, Barbara.”

“Yes, and you're a Jesuit again,” she said, putting an arm around him. “I'm glad we came here, Philip. Don't mind if I tease you. I know how important this is to you.”

“That valley between us and the city—what do you suppose it's called?”

“I have a map here. Somewhere.” She went to look for the map, and Philip opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony.

The air was cold and sharp, like San Francisco on a winter evening—a place on the other side of the world—and this was the navel of the world; and all the old memories and practices returned, and tears welled into his eyes at the thought that he was here, truly here—something that Barbara would never completely understand. She was of the earth, wholly, completely, and there was a core inside of her that needed no support other than her mind and her body. But wasn't that the basis of his love for her, this strength that she gave him?

“I think it's called Meve Shaoaam, or perhaps that's some other place. Philip, it's cold out here. I never thought it could be so cold in Jerusalem.”

The valley was deep black now, but the sun still reflected the minarets and church towers of Old Jerusalem.

“Come inside,” she said.

“It's not real. I can't believe I'm standing here.”

“You'll believe it if you get a chill. You're still doped up with the painkillers and the other stuff they gave you. Come and we'll have dinner, old man. I'm starved.”

When they asked Sarah where they might find some dinner, she suggested a French restaurant; and when Barbara raised a brow, Sarah attested to the fact that it was a wonderful restaurant, opened some years ago by French Jews. “You see, Mrs. Carter, we have everything here. If your taste turns to Italian food, we have an Italian Jewish restaurant down near the old railroad station, but you'd never find it by yourselves. Tomorrow Mr. Kollek is sending a guide and a touring car for you, and it will be at your disposal.”

Barbara shook her head in disbelief, and Philip asked, “Can't we just walk from here to the Old City?”

“Yes, if you're good walkers. But I think you would do better to take the car to the city gate and walk from there. The Old City is a maze, and if you've never been there, you'll want the guide. He knows the Old City, and he's a charming young man, an Egyptian Jew fluent in Arabic.”

“That would be wonderful,” Barbara decided. “At what time?”

“He'll be here at nine a.m.—or whenever you're ready. His name is Abdul Carim.”

“Aren't we an awful burden to you?” Philip asked.

“No, not at all. This house is maintained by the government for visitors of distinction.”

“‘Visitors of distinction,'” Barbara repeated as they walked down the street to the French restaurant. “Here I am, fortunate enough to be married to a man who is a valid hero, crazy enough to jump into a burning bus and become a national symbol. I know that pride is a sin to your way of thinking, but you married a sinful woman, and I'm very proud of you. So from now on, please, let it happen, pride or not.”

“Heaven knows what will happen. Don't forget, my hair is gone, and my skull is smeared over with white paste—”

“Pride again. Do I ever protest the white paste when I go to bed with you?”

“I try to blot it off each night.”

“And then you make love to me like a seventeen-year-old—that's prideful and sinful… I know. I said I would stop teasing you. Please forgive me.”

The food in the French restaurant was very good, and they were seated by a window where they could see the lights of the Old City. The champagne that was brought to them as a gift of the house was valid French brut.

“How do they know?” Barbara wondered.

“I'm sure Sarah called them. There's something very familial about this country,” Philip said. “Everyone appears to be related. My dear Barbara, let me explain something to you. I went to a Catholic primary school, a Catholic high school, and then a Jesuit seminary. In all this education we were given to feel that the world of Jesus had disappeared with his crucifixion. Well, not really in that sense, but Jerusalem was a religious symbol, not an actual place where one could go. Remember that then, in the thirties, there was no country called Israel, just a handful of Jews trying to scrape a living out of the desert. What happened was a miracle, but I can't adjust to the fact that tomorrow I will walk in the steps of Jesus, in the streets where he walked. It doesn't matter that I am a Unitarian minister and have been a Unitarian minister for years. So you, with all your rationalism and distaste for the symbols of religion—you must somehow put up with me.”

Barbara took his hand. “My dear, sweet Philip,” she said. “I never put up with you. It's the reverse—you put up with me, with my teasing, my nonsense, and my irascibility. I'll be seventy in two weeks. How many widows of seventy could find a man like you?”

“Now you're really embarrassing me.”

“I know. But I have to embarrass you to reach you. And we've hardly touched the champagne. What shall we drink to?”

“
Shalom?
”

“Why not?”

T
HEIR GUIDE, WHOM THEY MET
at nine o'clock, was a dark, handsome young man who explained that his name was not really Abdul but Eliazer, but he had been given the nickname of Abdul because his Arabic was so good; he said it should be, since he had lived in Cairo until the age of twelve. His English was also excellent. Sarah had told him of their interest in the Old City, “And since you are both Christians, I think we should enter the walls by Saint Stephen's Gate. Also, better parking outside for the car.” He went on to tell them that while there were eight gates in the walls, the Saint Stephen's Gate was preferred by most Christians. “It leads directly into the Via Dolorosa, and there, if you wish, we can follow the stations of the cross. But only if you desire. We call it the Lions' Gate because our troops entered there when we captured Jerusalem.” Then he added, “If I talk too much, just tell me to shut up.”

“We won't tell you to shut up,” Philip said. “We're grateful for all you can tell us.”

“Afterward, we can explore the city. It's a marvelous place, like a museum two thousand years old. Have you had breakfast?”

“We had coffee and buns. That's plenty,” Barbara said.

They parked outside Saint Stephen's Gate and followed their guide through the wall. Abdul explained that the Church of Saint Anne had been built by the Crusaders, and that Barbara and Philip could come back and examine it on another day, but that now they would follow the path of the cross.

“But that's up to you,” he added. “It is also said that the mother and father of Mary are buried under the church, but I think they invented that for the tourists.”

“Leave it for the time being,” Philip agreed. “Go ahead with the stations of the cross.”

They walked on and stopped at the yard of an old Arab school. “It was here,” Abdul said, “that Pontius Pilate met Jesus. He questioned him and then told the crowd,
‘Ecce homo' …
That's called the Chapel of the Flagellation. The clothes of Jesus were torn off, and he was whipped and crowned with a wreath of thorns. The Romans must have known of this in advance, because they had the wreath and the purple robe all ready. The scholars disagree about that, but scholars always disagree. Then he was given a cross to drag to his own crucifixion. So we have here the first and second stations of the cross. Only, it was not exactly a cross, as we know it today, but a plank of wood on a square pole, shaped like a T. Again, I'm quoting the scholars.”

Barbara was watching Philip, who stood at the spot as if mesmerized. Abdul did not urge them on, and after a minute or so, Barbara took Philip's arm and gently moved him forward. Tourists were passing by, some with guides, others simply strolling down the Via Dolorosa. At a small chapel Abdul said, “Here is the third station. He falls here.” Philip nodded. “And here, at the fourth station—,” Abdul said, and Philip murmured, “He falls again. In three of the gospels, Simon of Cyrene takes the cross and carries it the rest of the way. According to John, Jesus carries it the rest of the way. But how could he, a piece of wood large enough to hang a man by his hands? And here his face is wiped by Veronica. This
is
the sixth station, isn't it?”

Abdul merely nodded. To Barbara, this was all strange and somewhat troublesome. If she had ever been told in Sunday school what the stations of the cross were, she had long ago forgotten. Sensing her feelings, Philip kissed her and whispered, “Don't be alarmed, my dear. Tomorrow I'll be a Unitarian again. Right now this is an emotional experience I can't shake off.”

“The stations are marked,” Abdul said. “I don't think I have to explain them.” He and Barbara let Philip walk ahead of them as they entered the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, Abdul telling her softly, “The last four stations of the cross are inside this church. I think Mr. Carter knows that. The church was built on the Hill of Golgotha, but I suppose most of the hill was leveled before they built the church. The Old City was much smaller then, and two thousand years ago, this spot was outside the walls. These present walls are only four hundred years old, but the tourists like to think that they are the original walls of the old Jewish city. These little chapels belong to the Greek Orthodox, the Armenian Christians, the Roman Catholics, and others. Protestants are not allowed to hold services here.”

Philip had disappeared in the crowd of tourists gathered around the final stage of the cross, where Jesus was buried and then resurrected. The church itself was dimly lit, gloomy, dirty, and in poor repair—this, the holiest spot in the Christian world, fallen into decay and disrepair, airless and unwelcoming. The smell of the place was rank and disturbing, and Barbara said to Abdul, “We'll wait for my husband outside.” She shivered.

Outside she said to Abdul angrily, “Everything in Israel is so glistening, clean, and impressive—and this! This means nothing to me, but to my husband and others it's the center of mankind, and you allow it to rot and decay. You boast of the freedom of religion in your country and you turn this into a slum!”

“Don't blame us,” Abdul pleaded. “We have no authority here, and no right to touch anything here. It's the Christian sector of the city, and it's governed by the Catholics and the Greek Orthodox and by other Christian churches here. We've begged them to let us reconstruct. We've offered them money to do it themselves. We make this area available to people of every faith. We guard it and keep it safe. But we have no authority to touch any relic or chapel or church.”

Barbara listened and said she was sorry. In any case, why take out her feelings on Abdul?… What had provoked her so? Why did all this make her skin creep? Did she want Philip to scorn this strange display of what had happened two thousand years ago, or was she hardening the rift that had always existed between her and Philip? And if so, she told herself, it must stop. Somehow she must understand without condemnation. Somehow she must accept religion as a thing millions of people required, and without which they could not live, though she had lived without it and lived well—or so she felt when she reflected upon it—and most of the people she knew and loved lived without it, and they lived well and kindly. She had been drawn to the Unitarians, after the first retreat from the rain that led her there, because they appeared to be a group of people who simply felt that gathering together to celebrate life and compassion was sufficient—and yet under that celebration, when she thought deeply, was a need for something more than themselves and each other. Now, she told herself firmly, she must be neither provoked nor impatient with her husband. She would let him take the lead, whether to talk about it or not to talk about it.

Through all of her cogitation, Abdul remained silent, thinking perhaps of his own experiences with those who had come down the Via Dolorosa to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. He had guided people of every religion down the street, Jews and Christians and Muslims and Buddhists, but this woman was difficult to understand. He had been told that the man was a Unitarian minister, but what a Unitarian was, he had not the faintest notion. As for the woman—well, she was a Christian. He had given up any attempt to understand Christians.