Cyrill Delvin - The Gaza Project

They also knew there was a washroom, toilets and two bedrooms on the northern part of the building beside the larder. There was obviously no window in the stairwell, or they would have seen it. Consequently there could only be one place with enough room for a staircase: between the larder and the washroom. That meant the second door on the left. All these deliberations took only seconds.

David had stopped at the entrance, upset by the idea that they could open a door to one of the bedrooms by mistake. It didn’t bear contemplating what would happen then. He was just about to turn to Abarron when the boy in question headed straight for the second door on the left. He had already opened it and started to climb the first steps when he heard another door opening in the corridor.

David froze. It’s over!

But Abarron had the presence of mind to grab him by the sleeve and pull him into the stairwell. The light came on in the hall. Without closing the door, Abarron manoeuvred David onto the first step as silently as possible. They could now hear the teacher scuffling along the corridor. He wouldn’t have to pass the door to the staircase if he needed to use the bathroom. But the teacher didn’t use that option, instead he stopped outside the open door. Had he noticed them? Only now did Abarron, too, feel seriously uneasy. David and he crouched against the wall.

After long seconds of trepidation, the door closed and the stairway was immersed in total darkness. Then they heard the larder being opened. The teacher was obviously peckish. The two intruders didn’t dare move until they were sure that the teacher had gone back to his room. And wisely so. The second last timber step creaked so loudly that they froze in mid-movement again. But nothing stirred inside the house.

When they had reached the upper floor, they paused outside the Arabic teacher’s door. David produced brushes and paints from his pockets. They nodded at each other to confirm that they were ready. David’s hands were drenched in sweat when he grabbed the handle and pushed it down to open the door. But the door didn’t budge.

»What the…«

»Psst!«

»What are we going to do? I’m going to write it on the door so…«

»No, wait. Why not do the job properly after all that work? I’m going to open the door.«

Without having to turn around, Abarron just knew that David was standing there with his mouth wide open. But there was no time for explanations. From his trouser pocket he extracted a thick wire, bent at the front and flat. The trick was not to push the key out of the lock when it was inserted on the inside. He noiselessly set to work with the lock pick. Out of sheer boredom, he had practised the skill in the endless cellars of the prefabricated buildings where he lived with his grandparents during term breaks. The door snapped open with a quiet ›click‹.

They could hear the Arabic teacher’s even breaths through the gap. He was fast asleep. Otherwise it was perfectly still. David carefully pushed the door open and started groping his way towards the breathing sounds. Abarron stayed outside in the hall to keep watch. Two or three times he heard David tripping over things, but the teacher slept on. The moon only scantily illuminated the room, just enough to get on with things. Abarron could hear the gentle brush strokes out on the corridor.

Let’s hope the pungent smell of the paint doesn’t wake him.

But Al-Jabiri didn’t wake up. After David had crept back out of the room, he couldn’t wait to get out of the building. Abarron stopped him: »I’ll lock the door again first.«

»Is that necessary?«

Everything worked out and soon after they were standing outside the teachers‘ wing and turned the key. Nothing had changed outside and Jachin waved at the two of them from the roof.

»What are we going to do with Samuel?« David asked after taking a deep breath.

»I’ll take the key back and tomorrow morning I’ll wait for the caretaker outside his office. As soon as he’s unlocked it, I’ll ask him for some toilet paper. He keeps it in the press under the stairs. That should be time enough for Samuel to get out.«

David wasn’t even surprised anymore how quickly Abarron could think on his feet. David himself was fourteen; Abarron only nine years old. A short while later they were back in their dormitory, lying in their beds.

In the top floor of the residential building, the Assistant Headmaster, too, retired for the night.

The following morning, the Arabic teacher didn’t show up for his lessons. He was quite upset. It wasn’t so much the scribbling on the wall that troubled him. What disturbed him far more was the fact that somebody had been able to break into his room while he was sleeping. As an adolescent growing up in Jerusalem he had experienced what it was like not to feel safe in one’s own four walls when the secret service came for them in the middle of the night. Nobody had noticed the agents entering the bedroom. All of a sudden they stood beside the bed and only the hammers of their guns being cocked woke his parents and siblings.

His father and mother, both Israelis of Arab descent, returned home three days later. They were never the same again and never talked about those three days. But one thing they always made very clear to their children: Arab Israelis are certainly not citizens but barely tolerated strangers at best.

›Israel is our country. The Arabs are our underdogs‹ was written in blood red letters on the wall above his bed.

The barbed wire fence was simply there. Out of nowhere it had materialised in front of Abarron. With each push of the swing he tried to reach it with the tips of his toes. If only he could manage to touch it. Then it would burst like a bubble and disappear. And there would be nothing left between him and them. But his attempts were in vain. Even worse, with each backwards swing, the wire fence, too, swung back.

Back and forth – back and forth.

He could stretch out his hand. But then he would have to let go and fall off the swing. Even when he got really close to the fence, it was always just that bit too far. Always just out of reach. Yet he knew that it would dissolve, if only he could touch it. He was absolutely certain.

Back and forth – back and forth.

Abarron couldn’t stop the swing and was terribly scared of falling off. Beneath him was a gigantic crater. From the abyss a grimacing skull with scraps of skin and flaming eyes was staring up at him relentlessly, only waiting for the boy to release the chains to grab the fence. Skull and fence kept the boy in check. If only he could jump off the swing and land on the ground in front of the big hole.

Back and forth – back and forth.

Behind the fence sat his father, his mother and his younger brother Eliachim around a small table, drinking lemonade. Abarron was very thirsty. The sun was scorching hot, merciless. It was July in Ashkelon. Only the little table was shaded by a parasol. A beautiful parasol with light blue and red flowers and white clouds. His mother kept on waving to him.

Come on and join us. We have ice-cold lemonade.

But he was trapped on the swing above the abyss and behind the fence.

Back and forth – back and forth.

His mother was smiling and from time to time his father also looked up from his glass and beamed at him with his dark brown eyes. Only his brother had his back turned to him while drinking the ice-cold, sweet lemonade. His throat was even more parched now until it felt like the dried up and cracked clay soil underneath the olive grove in the sun.

He had bought Eliachim a shovel for his birthday. He just had to wrap it and sleep two more times before he could give him the present. They would both be overjoyed. Eliachim because of the shovel for the sand heap and he because Eliachim would be so happy with it. With every movement of the swing, the shovel pressed against his thigh. It glowed in a golden orange.