The Cat at the Wall (6 page)

Thirteen

—

Christmas over
here is a big deal.

Bethlehem is not a little town. It’s not anything like the Christmas carol. It’s a big city with hill after hill, and it’s not still at all, even though the song says it is. And the place where Jesus was born is not some little stable like you see in the nativity scenes. It’s a great big church with a giant Christmas tree outside and crowds of people gathering from all over the world for an “experience.”

I know all this because that’s where I spent last Christmas Eve.

Christmas was a good eating time because tourists always dropped food, but there were so many people in Manger Square that a cat was taking her life in her hands dashing from one sloppy tourist to another.

It was raining that day, and chilly. By nightfall it was downright cold. I followed the crowd into the church to get warm.

It was easy to get in. There were so many people. They had to enter the church one by one because the door was very small. People had to bend down to get through. I overheard the tour guide say that the door was called the Gate of Humility since people had to bow their heads to pass through, but really it was created by some ancient guy to keep horses or camels from getting into the church.

I wandered among the people and found some kids who wanted to pet me until their mother told them to “Get away from that stray!” I didn’t care. It was good to be inside, smelling the incense and listening to the singing. It reminded me of midnight mass with my grandmother.

At the back of the church I followed the crowd down a few steep steps into a little cave-like room. It was packed with people singing and praying.

“Jesus was born right on that silver star!” a woman said to her friend. “I can’t believe we are right here, right where it happened.”

I squeezed through people’s legs to see what she was talking about.

The silver star was embedded in the marble floor of a little nook. Curtains hung over the sides of the opening. The light was dim, so I slipped behind the curtain and hid in the little space.

No one noticed me. The parts of me that stuck out were hidden by the shadows of the candles that hovered over the star.

One by one, people knelt down at the star, touched it and said a prayer. Their faces were close to mine. Some smelled like tobacco. Some smelled like booze. Some smelled like peppermint and hot dogs.

It started to feel stuffy in there. More and more people crowded in. They were all breathing and the rain from their coats was evaporating, candles were burning and incense clouded the air.

It was all getting to be too much for a little cat.

Then I heard a clock chime the hours. I counted twelve. And when the last vibration of the twelfth chime faded away, all time stopped.

I learned in science class that this is not possible, that the world spins and the moon spins around it and therefore time cannot stop because gravity and everything else depends on it keeping going.

But time did stop.

I know this because I could see someone’s watch. An old man was kneeling down beside the star. His hands were cupped over his face. I saw his wristwatch. The second hand was not moving.

I peered out from behind the curtain.

No one was singing. No one was talking. No one was even moving. Everything was still and quiet.

And that’s when their souls started to talk.

I guess it was their souls. I don’t know how else to explain it. No lips were moving. In fact, no one moved a muscle. They were like statues. No voices were raised. No one was lying or complaining or asking about the bathrooms.

But they talked, just the same, all the people who were crowded into that stuffy little cave underneath the old church.

I heard them all, like a choir, their sounds swirling in the air around me. There were many voices, but they all said the same thing.

“If only I could do it again …”

Some wished they’d been nicer to their kids or their wives or their parents. Others wished they’d been braver or happier or sat in the garden more.

It’s like they were all saying,
“I had this precious thing and I wasted it …”

It didn’t make any sense to me. They were all still alive! They had lots of time to be nice or smell the roses or whatever! I was the one who was dead. I was the only one who really had the right to have any regrets because it really was too late for me. Too late for me to be nicer to Polly. Too late for me to tell my parents I loved them. Too late for me to forget the party and go with Grandma to the soup kitchen the day she was killed so she wouldn’t have been alone by the garbage bins.

As far as I was concerned, everyone in that cave was just whining and should be ashamed of themselves.

I got so mad I almost left.

But I didn’t. And soon after that, the old man’s watch started ticking again and everyone went back to their chattering, complaining selves. The moment was over, the songs came to an end, and the guardians of the church cleared everyone out.

I stayed. I curled up on the shelf where the baby Jesus was supposed to have been born and I thought about the Christmas detention I got.

Ms. Zero gave it out at the last minute. To this day, I don’t know how she saw. It was the last class before the holidays and we were getting ready to head out of the classroom. Everyone was busy putting their stuff away and packing up their backpacks. That’s when the girl in the desk beside me dropped her wallet on the floor.

She wasn’t part of my crew, but she was okay. She never gave me a hard time, and when I was paired with her for a project, she did most of the work without ratting on me.

But when I saw her wallet on the floor, I didn’t even think about it. I scooped it up and put it with my stuff.

A second later, Ms. Zero reached right into my backpack without even getting my permission. She pulled out the girl’s wallet and handed it back to her.

To me, all she said was, “Times five.”

Of course I didn’t have a copy of the stupid poem at home and I was too mad to look it up. I didn’t do the copies over the holidays. When I came back to class in January, Ms. Zero put a big six beside my name on the blackboard.

That’s what I thought about as I sat in the spot where Jesus was born.

If I hadn’t put that wallet in my bag, I would not have gotten that detention. I would not have started out the new year with so many copies of the poem to make, and I may have had a whole different time of things.

I probably would not even have died.

I sat in that spot and tried to figure out why I put that wallet in my bag instead of handing it to the girl who dropped it.

I had no idea why. I just did it without thinking.

I did it because I was used to doing things like that.

After I had that thought, I fell into a deep, satisfying sleep. I dreamed about my family on Christmas morning. My mom and dad were there, and Polly, and my grandma. They were opening their presents, and when they talked about me, they said only good things.

Fourteen

—

“It’s time
,” said Aaron. “It’s well after midnight. The streets are quiet. I think we should leave.”

All their stuff was packed up. The boy and I were sitting together in the middle of the City of Dreams, watching the men and waiting.

The soldiers were nervous. Simcha kept trying the radio, hoping the dead batteries would miraculously kick back into life. Aaron kept looking at the map and muttering about the direction they came from and which direction they should go when they left.

As I’ve said, the Big Wall was not that far away, and once they found the wall they would be able to walk along it to one of the open places they call the checkpoints. But a lot depended on which direction they walked. The wall was hidden behind a few hills and valleys. They could easily turn the wrong way and miss it.

It was dark again, too. The power was still out. I could see all right but it would make the journey harder for the soldiers.

I decided to go with them. It would be fun to watch them try to figure out their way back. Once they got there, they might decide that they liked having a cat around and their unit could adopt me.

“Find the boy a jacket or something,” Aaron ordered. “And where are his shoes?”

The boy and I watched the soldiers rummage around for the things they thought the boy might need. The boy looked at me. I could see him thinking. He put his hand on my head and scratched my ears. I purred to reward him and to keep him doing it.

They found a jacket and put it on the boy. They put his feet into shoes and tied the laces. The soldiers picked up their rucksacks, shouldered their rifles and opened the door.

Aaron looked outside, both ways.

“I don’t see anyone,” he said. “Grab the boy. Let’s go.”

Simcha took the boy’s arm. Not roughly, but solidly. They headed to the door. I was right there with them.

They got to the open door and were almost through it when the boy decided he wasn’t going.

He grabbed hold of the door frame and would not let go.

He started yelling the punishment poem at the top of his lungs.

The soldiers tried to pry his hands free but he had a grip of steel. They tried to pick him up to pull him away, but he made himself into a dead weight and would not be moved.

“Grab him! What’s the matter with you? You’re three times his size.”

“You want me to hurt him? Is that what you want? How is that going to help get us out of here?”

It was kind of funny because the two soldiers were whispering and the little boy was bellowing. He kept it up, too. I don’t think he stopped for a single breath.

They struggled with the kid for a good long moment before they retreated back inside the house.

Unfortunately, I was on the wrong side of the door when they closed it. I found myself outside.

I didn’t like that at all. I was too curious to see what would happen next with these three. So I mimicked the boy. I howled. And howled.

I heard cursing from inside. Then the door opened a sliver. I dashed inside.

All that effort ruffled my fur. I groomed myself for a long time. It made me feel better.

Fifteen

—

We spent
the night in the little house. No parents came back for the boy. He didn’t cry for them, so maybe he didn’t miss them. He played in his City of Dreams, mumbling the punishment poem to himself as he picked up the cardboard houses and rearranged streets. When he got tired, he stretched out and fell asleep where he was. He was a lot like a cat.

I liked him, except for the damn poem.

Aaron lifted the sleeping boy off the floor, put him on the sofa and covered him with a blanket. The two soldiers talked quietly off and on. They took turns sleeping. It felt like a long night.

The riots started early the next day. I could hear shouts and shouting. They were closer to our neighborhood, too. Tear gas came in on the morning breeze. Everyone in the house was tense. The boy was rocking and humming his tuneless little tune, deep inside the City of Dreams. The soldiers were at the window, standing instead of sitting, rifles out and pointed.

A rush of boys came running past the house. They picked up stones and threw them almost without stopping. Aaron noted them on his voice recorder.

“They’re throwing their rocks at somebody,” he said to Simcha. “There must be some of our soldiers around here. We could just join them.” He headed for the door. “Come on. Bring the boy. We’ll leave him at a shop or something. Someone will take care of him.”

“You want us to step out into a riot?” asked Simcha.

“We’ll wait until we see that
our
guys are here.”

But no soldiers came running after the stone-throwers, and the sounds of the riot drifted away.

The two soldiers in the house could not make up their minds what to do. They paced around, then plunked back down in the chairs by the window and glared at each other.

I went over to the boy and let him scratch my ears while we watched.

A new sound reached my ears through the babble of the soldiers.

I lifted my head and felt my ears twitch.

It was the sound of little kids. They were singing. And their voices were moving closer.

“What’s that?” Simcha asked.

The sound got closer and closer until it was right outside the house.

Then it stopped. And there was a knock at the door.

I jumped. The two soldiers sprang up from their seats and backed away from the window.

“Omar!” a woman’s voice called out. “Omar, are you in there? It’s your teacher, Ms. Fahima.”

“There’s a whole pack of them out there,” Aaron said.

The doorknob jiggled. Simcha took two big steps to the door and made sure the lock was on.

Omar, which seemed to be the name of the kid in the house, left the City of Dreams and went over to the door. He reached for the doorknob. Simcha pulled him away.

“Omar? Are you in there? You didn’t come to school today.”

The kid went back to the door to try to open it. Simcha pulled him away again.

“Help me here!” Simcha whispered to Aaron.

Aaron took the kid by the shoulders. As soon as his hands got a grip on the boy, Omar began reciting the punishment poem — loudly, as if it were all one word.

“Goplacidlyamidthenoiseandthehasteandremembe
r
…”

“Omar’s home,” I heard a child say.

I hopped onto one of the chairs by the window and looked out. Sixteen seven-year-olds wearing light blue school uniforms were gathered in the street.

This was a new kind of riot.

“Omar, is your mother in there?” Ms. Fahima asked. “I know she can’t hear me. Could you take her to the window so she can see that your teacher is here?”

Omar kept reciting and Aaron kept holding him.

“Do something!” Simcha hissed. “Shut him up!”

“You don’t give orders here,” Aaron barked. He was working hard to keep hold of the squirming Omar.

Simcha found the balled-up cloth that they’d used as a blindfold and tossed it to Aaron. Aaron let it fall to the floor.

“I’m not gagging a seven-year-old,” he said. “Besides, the teacher already knows he’s here.”

“Speakyourtruthquietly
…”
shouted Omar.

“Omar has a kitty!” one of the children said, pointing at me. In the next instant there were sixteen little faces pressed against the window.

At first it seemed crazy. This whole place was crawling with cats, so what was so special about me? But then I kind of liked it.

I pretended I was a movie star posing on the red carpet. I rubbed my face against the glass so it looked like I was giving them kisses. They all wanted to get close to me but I wouldn’t let them get too close! I pretended the glass was my army of bodyguards, keeping my many fans at a safe distance.

“Children, it is not polite to look in someone’s window. Just because we are under occupation, that’s no reason to forget our manners.”

“Ms. Fahima, come see the kitty!” one of the little kids said.

“All right, but only to check on Omar, not to be a window-peeper.”

The teacher left the door and came to the window. She bent down so she was level with me and put her face to the glass.

She came so close to me so quickly that I was startled. I screeched and arched my back like it was Hallowe’en, then jumped back and scurried under the sofa.

The children squealed with laughter.

“You made the kitty jump! Do it again!”

The teacher laughed along with them. I liked the sound of her laugh. It was not mean.

I squirmed to the front edge of the sofa and peered out.

“There’s the kitty,” a kid called out.

Ms. Fahima held her smile as her eyes darted around the house, looking for Omar. They widened in horror when she saw the boy held by the soldiers.

Aaron was now holding the rifle. Simcha had his hand over Omar’s mouth. I don’t know why he bothered. Everyone knew now that the kid was in the house.

“Do you think she’s seen us?” Simcha asked.

“Of course she’s seen us,” said Aaron.

The teacher gathered her wits and said to the children, “Come away from the window now, boys and girls. It’s such a lovely day, and there is this nice bit of yard right here. Why don’t we stay outside Omar’s house today and do our school work here? Who would like to do that?”

Ms. Fahima got the children away from the window before any of them spotted the soldiers. They seemed very excited about making their school outside.

“Can we have a picnic?” I heard one of them ask.

“Very good remembering of the English word we learned yesterday! Let’s all say it together.”

Sixteen little voices chirped their way through a collection of English words and the alphabet song. I went back to the window to watch them.

They sat on the rocks and cement blocks that littered the yard beside the house, all of their eyes on the teacher. I couldn’t see her all that well from the window. She was standing with her back to the door.

I got the message even if the soldiers didn’t.

If anyone was leaving the house, they’d have to get past her.

“Nice and loud, children, so that Omar can hear us inside his house and not feel left out.”

“One little, two little, three Palestinians,” they sang at the top of their lungs. “Four little, five little, six Palestinians.”

While the children sang, Ms. Fahima took out her cellphone. She glanced back at the house once, then turned away to watch her students.

“Who’s she calling?” Simcha asked.

“Whoever it is,” Aaron said, “I think we’re in trouble.”