Cyrill Delvin - The Gaza Project

But Eliachim didn’t turn around; he just sat motionless at the table. His mother still waved to him and his father stared into his glass. He wanted to call out to them, but his throat was now completely dry. Not a sound escaped his chapped lips. His hands tensed around the chains attached to the swing.

Back and forth – back and forth.

With each swinging movement his hands got hotter until they were glowing. The fiery sun was blazing from above, and the gaze of the decayed head flamed from below. His hands began to burn. It reeked of scorched flesh. He couldn’t let go of the chains. The heat baked the soles of his feet and singed his hair. His mother smiled at him. His father looked up and beamed at him again. Only Eliachim didn’t turn around.

Back and forth – back and forth.

The pain was excruciating and the smell of burned flesh made him feel nauseous. Blood flowed down his legs, forming the Arabic letters for ›underdogs‹. His insides started to boil until he exploded and the flesh was torn from his bones in fist sized pieces. His shattered bones scattered projectile-like in all directions. A pulp of fat, blood and intestines splashed all around him and was swallowed by the infernal crater.

Abarron wanted to scream!

The mother smiled.

The father beamed.

The shovel pressed against his thigh.

Eliachim had his back turned to him.

In the end his heart broke, was torn to shreds – behind the barbed wire fence.

He woke up drenched in sweat. Only slowly did his spirits return. Outside it was still night and the other children in the dormitory were asleep. He turned his head to the side and gazed out of the open window. The moon was nearly full and the crickets chirped their last song of the night. Or were they already greeting the morning?

Four years ago, just after his parents and his brother had been killed during the Palestinian suicide bombing of the café in Ashkelon, he had also had this dream. That very evening his grandmother had put him to bed in her place. Utterly confused, he had asked her to help him wrap Eliachim’s birthday present. Secretly, of course, preferably tomorrow when Eli is outside playing. His grandmother had started to cry and couldn’t speak. She hugged her grandchild tightly and kissed him goodnight.

Since then, he hadn’t had the nightmare again. Until three weeks after their night-time excursion to the Arabic teacher’s room. From then on it had been a regular occurrence.

A radical Islamic group claimed responsibility for the bombing in Aschkalon. In retaliation, the Israeli air force soon after attacked the beach in southern Gaza. Thirteen civilians died in Israel, twenty five on the Palestinian side. The press was in uproar in both camps; then life continued as usual.

For a long time Abarron didn’t understand why the Arabs had killed his parents and his brother. Of course he had known even then that the Palestinians were evil and dangerous neighbours, not to mention their lack of culture. Up to that point though this hadn’t been a reality to him, but just stories. When later on he understood what had happened, he still hadn’t believed for a long time that rage and despair often went hand in hand with death. And when he had finally believed it, it had been too late for him. The hatred that had been sown on that day was bearing fruit. From that moment on he was a prisoner of his own self.

Ever since, he had lived with his grandparents in one of the countless tower blocks outside Ashkelon. But with the loss of his family he also felt the connection to his grandparents slip away. Perhaps even his connection to people in general. For this reason he actually quite liked the King David boarding school. Here, he didn’t need anybody and nobody wanted anything from him – he thought.

»I can see that you are an outstanding pupil,« Rishon Weisz told him the next day. »Your marks are excellent and your conduct is impeccable.« Weisz lifted his gaze from the documents on his heavy desk and looked right into the student’s eyes.

The spacious office was on the ground floor of the school building and had large windows protected by tight wire mesh looking out onto the sports grounds. Through the open window one could hear the screeching and yelling of the playing children. »Do you know why I asked you to see me?«

Abarron shook his head. The graffiti in the Arabic teacher’s room wouldn’t be the reason. The episode had taken place too long ago and the fuss had died down by now.

Abarron didn’t really know the deputy headmaster. He wasn’t in any of his classes and he was rarely talked about in the school. Abarron hadn’t been guilty of any misconducts so far, or rather had always been clever enough not to be found out. He had no idea why Weisz wanted to talk to him.

»You complete all your assignments to the teachers‘ satisfaction, so you must wonder what this may be about?«

Abarron didn’t answer, but he frantically tried to think what he may have done wrong. The deputy sensed the boy’s unease and took his time.

»You may also wonder why you, David, Jachin und Samuel didn’t get busted?«

His voice sounded as if he were chatting about the weather. Something didn’t add up. The man facing him obviously knew more than he liked.

»And you may ask yourself why you weren’t punished for threatening and humiliating one of the teachers on our staff.«

Weisz had risen from his seat; his eyes had narrowed to slits and his voice had changed to a hiss. The deputy’s jovial demeanour had given way to a very different expression. He was not the man Abarron had thought he was. Suddenly he seemed threatening.

Abarron involuntarily took a step back. Does he know something? And how? He’s bluffing or he would have brought it up sooner… Or is he playing games?!

Weisz watched the boy through the corners of his eyes. It seemed as if he could read his every thought and emotion.

»As far as I am concerned, I would have expelled the three older students long ago. They’re good for nothing. You are the only reason that the four of you got away with it until now, Abarron Preiss.«

»But, Sir, I don’t know what you mean.«

»It’s enough that I know,« Weisz interrupted him unmoved.

»Please, ask David or Samuel. We weren’t involved in…«

»I don’t believe a word you’re saying. But you’re clever and talented – just not when it comes to lying.«

Abarron appeared more and more unsure of himself.

»I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you became a boarder. And believe me, I’m a good judge of character. I could have stopped you that night, even before you broke into the teachers‘ quarters, but I wanted to find out what you boys had planned and how. Or what you had planned, to be more precise. The others could perhaps have come up with the idea, but putting it into action, no, that needed a bit more cunning.«

The boy didn’t know what Weisz was getting it. Had they left evidence that had only now been discovered? Perhaps one of the older boys had given them away? It would be just like David or Samuel; presumably to impress the girls.

The vice-principal’s eyes stayed firmly fixed on him.

Abarron frantically considered how he should react. Tell the truth and hope that Weisz had a reason for not expelling him? Or keep his mouth shut in the hope that he didn’t have any actual proof? Was the whole thing a trap and if yes, why?

»It’s not a trap!«

Abarron was baffled. »I… I…«

Weisz didn’t say anything.

»I mean, I have…« again Abarron’s voice failed him.

The deputy merely lifted his eyebrows. Abarron started to sense a strange feeling creeping up inside him. Something he had suppressed for a long time. And it wasn’t the images from his dream.