Tommy Wieringa - These Are the Names

The boy peered at the horizon. ‘Houses!’ he said in surprise.

Never had the promised land been this close. It looked like you could touch it; all you had to do was reach out …

‘Cars! Over there!’

What seemed to surprise him most was that life on the other side looked just like it did here — the same grass, the same cars, the same houses. He sighed. A cloud slid across the sun, and the steppe faded to an ashen grey.

Little Moses, Beg thought, come so far, and now at last he sees his destination.

It was sheer torment, for this was where the road ended for him.

Still holding the binoculars to his eyes, the boy asked: ‘Is it really that difficult?’

Beg nodded. ‘Very difficult.’

The boy was soaking up the world on the other side. He had no greater desire than to be there — there, where there were no problems. It was impossible for there to be problems, no matter what anyone said.

‘Have you ever heard of Israel?’ Beg asked.

The boy shook his head.

‘It’s a country, too, far away from here.’ Beg waved his hand, in a gesture that went far beyond the horizon. ‘A sunny country, beside the sea.’

‘So what about it?’

‘Maybe you should think about going there. It’s a civilised place. Not like here. They’ve cultivated the desert, they grow dates and grapes and mangos. Later on, I can show you some pictures.’

Deep thought was traced on the boy’s forehead. ‘How would I get in there, into …’

‘Israel.’

‘Is it really far away?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it a bit lately,’ Beg said. ‘Imagine for a moment that you actually did get across the border here. One day, I’m sure you’d make it — maybe the first time you tried, maybe the tenth, but you’d make it. You’re smart enough; you’re not the kind who gives up. But after that, you’d still be nothing more than an undesirable alien. They don’t want you over there; they really don’t. It’s important that you realise this. There are so many people like you over there. You’re going to have to put up with humiliation. Maybe you’ll sell newspapers in front of a train station, or lug boxes at a market, or wash dishes in a restaurant. There’s a good chance that you’ll have to share a room with seven other men; you’ll have to take turns sleeping.’

He saw that his words were not touching base. He was describing a reality that lay in store for others, not for the boy. He was the anomaly, an illusory exception to the countless others, immune to statistics and probabilities.

‘All right,’ Beg went on, ‘so imagine that what I’m saying is true. Just try to imagine that, okay? Over there, you’re an illegal alien. You could be picked up and deported at any time. You’ll have to have eyes in the back of your head, live like a criminal. You don’t want that, do you?’

The boy shook his head impatiently. All he wanted to hear was where Beg’s thoughts were going, not how they got there.

Beg nodded. ‘That’s what made me think of Israel,’ he said slowly. ‘Completely different from what you were planning, I know. A different route. But a hundred times better than what you were planning at first.’

‘So we do that, right?’

‘There’s just one hitch: you have to be a Jew in order to live in Israel. Do you know what a Jew is?’

The boy shook his head.

‘Just like you’ve got Russians and Americans, you’ve also got Jews. They live in Israel — that’s their country.’

‘Oh.’

‘All right then,’ Beg said. ‘You’re not a Jew, so that means you have to become one.’

The boy’s frown said: I’m not following you, old man, you’re ranting.

‘That’s what you need to think about, whether that’s what you want,’ Beg said. ‘To become a Jew.’

‘I want anything,’ the boy said. ‘Tell me how.’

Beg stared at his boots. This morning he had polished them to a high shine. There was already yellow dust on the tips.

‘So?’ the boy insisted.

‘To start with …’ Beg said. ‘How do I explain this? There’s an administrative problem. To become a Jew … You’d have to be my son … Become that, I mean. To apply for an Israeli passport.’

He felt as shy as a schoolboy. He said: ‘I’d have to be your father. Not your real one, of course, just on paper. Because you’re not a Jew, and I’m not a father. We’d both have to become that. It’s possible. I mean, it can be arranged. Administratively. To have you be of Jewish parentage. My rabbi is a wise man; he understands the world. We could make that happen, the administrative side of it. You’ve already escaped once on paper.’

The boy looked up. The two of them grinned at the shared memory — how he, Pontus Beg, had presented a two-week old infant by the name of Saïd Mirza for transport, and the detectives’ relief when they were allowed to leave the baby behind at the hospital. That way, one Saïd Mirza entered the books as a newborn and was left behind in the hospital at Michailopol, while the other Saïd Mirza moved beyond the range of prosecution and the eyes of the world. By the time they found out — if they ever found out — he would be long gone.

‘And that’s it?’ the boy said.

‘Unfortunately,’ Beg said, ‘there’s another hitch. You’d have to learn Hebrew. You can’t go to Israel without knowing Hebrew. They’d see you coming a mile away ... I’ll try to teach you, but it’s pretty difficult. My brain is old, yours is still young, and you can learn faster than I can.’

He narrowed his eyes and looked at the boy. ‘You’d make a good Jew, Saïd Mirza. You’ve spent your time in the wilderness already — you know what it’s all about.’

‘And so once I’m a Jew, what then?’

‘Every Jew, anywhere in the world, has a right to an Israeli passport. That means you can hop on a plane — you’re legal, you don’t have to live like a fugitive.’

The boy sighed like a mournful dog. ‘A plane? Do I have to?’

‘You can’t walk all the way there.’

‘I could.’

‘Yeah, you’re right, you probably could.’

‘What about you, are you going, too?’

‘Me? No, let me stay here. I’m used to this mess. Send me a card every once in a while, and let me know how you’re doing.’

‘I will.’

‘But first, learn Hebrew.’

The boy nodded.

‘Become a good Jew.’

The boy nodded again.

‘A chip off the old block. Hard-working, smart.’

‘All right, sure.’

‘And when I die someday, maybe you could come back for a few days and bury me.’

‘All right already.’

The wind murmured across the slopes. It had grown chilly all of a sudden. Beg zipped up his jacket. The boy felt no cold. He stood there with the sun of the promised land on his face, and stared out across the waving grass in the distance, the yellow sea.