Before we can answer him, Avram says, of course, ya ibni Nissan, what’s mine is yours, take what you need, do you want me to bring you a ladder? Gina and I look at each other. The chisel is about to gouge the wall, but we’re both afraid to open our mouths because if we do, Avram will cut himself, and meanwhile, he goes to get Saddiq a ladder and comes back and they both open it in front of the wall and start taking down the hamsa, and Gina comes closer to me and whispers, Sima, ileh amokh, don’t you have to get back so the babysitter can go? I jump at the chance while the two men are busy and won’t notice, and I tiptoe to the door, put my hand on the knob and press it quietly to open it, then I close it behind me without shutting it all the way, and run down the steps to our house without looking back. I go inside panting and say to Noa: call the police.
*
I touch the stones, stroke them like you stroke a woman you love, but I don’t feel anything in my heart. I tell the Jews, there was a wall here, this is where my mother used to cook, that’s where the mattresses were and the heater next to them. I just say it, without feeling, like I’m telling Rami the contractor about how we’re doing on the frame. How long I’ve waited for this day, this moment, how much I’ve dreamed about touching these walls, walking on this floor, and now I don’t feel a thing. Here’s the old door. Here’s the window I used to look out of to see Wasim waiting for me, whistling. Everything’s here, even the old fig tree. But the smell, the house is full of their smell. The smell of that old man who thinks he’s my father, and of that woman with the wrinkles around her eyes. Their smell is in the walls and the floor and the sofa and the door and in the air and everywhere, even in the coffee. So why did I come here? My mother was right not to let us go to the old house when everyone else went, in ’67. What for? It’s better to dream. To sing songs. It’s better not to smell this smell. Not to see that they’ve taken down the pink curtains my mother made and put up new blue curtains, that they’ve built a new wall in the middle of my parents’ bedroom, that all our things have disappeared, the small rug from Damascus, the lamp from Hebron, the one I almost broke once, everything’s gone. The crazy old man says that only his son who grew up in this house could know everything so well. Right? he asks me, right, my Nissan? Of course it is, I tell him and ask him to bring me a ladder. Aiwah. Of course, he says. At least I can do this. At least I can bring my mother what she asked for. This, I won’t give up. It’s a matter of honour. I don’t care what that young one with the tiger eyes says. I don’t care if she goes to call the police now. They’re like putty in my hands, all of them. I’m Nissan, the crazy man’s son. And no one can touch me. I’ll set up the ladder in front of the old door, the door that doesn’t lead anywhere now, take the hamsa off the wall, take the chisel out of my toolbox and start banging.
*
In the end, the policemen came, three of them, and their chief, who was even shorter than me, almost a midget, asked immediately: where’s the intruder, miss? I pointed upstairs and said, you hear that banging? That’s him, there, taking apart the whole house. Armed? the midget asked. No, he doesn’t have a weapon, I said, and I don’t think he wants to hurt anyone, even though he has a chisel in his hand. O-o-kay, he said, and turned to the others, who drew their guns: no shooting without a direct order from me. Is that clear? Shooting?!! I said, scared, what do you mean, shooting? You don’t have to shoot anyone, officer, they are three old people in the house. With all due respect, miss, let me decide whether they’re dangerous or not, the midget said and signalled his men to follow him. I asked Noa to stay a tiny bit longer with Lilach and went out straight after them.
A bus that had pulled into the stop across the street let passengers off, and they all came over to see why a police car was parked here. That’s the way it is around here, everyone has to know everything. It’s OK, I gestured to them, everything’s fine. The policemen started going up the stairs and I grabbed the midget by his sleeve just before he got to the door and said that maybe I should go in first, so they won’t get scared. Absolutely not, he said and smashed the door hard with his shoulder, like you see in those TV series, but the door was slightly open — that’s how I left it when I sneaked out — so he kept right on going all the way into the living room. The other two policemen tried not to laugh and went in after him, and I locked the door. Thank God, Gina said and blew a kiss to the ceiling, thank God you came. Thank God for what? What are you talking about? Who asked them to come? Avram said, letting go of the ladder and walking over to the midget. Ah … the midget stammered and pointed to me, this lady here called us, she said an Arab broke into your house. Broke in? Who broke in? Avram said and grabbed him by his shirt. Ya ahabel, you idiot, this is my son, Nissan. I invited him in, and I’m overjoyed that he’s here. And who’s this? the midget asked, pointing at me. Avram looked at me and a spark of recognition flashed in his eyes. No one, he said, some crazy woman. She talks a lot but doesn’t understand much. She’s my daughter-in-law, Gina interrupted him (and I thought: the Messiah must have come, Gina’s saying something on my behalf?), and this is Avram, my husband. He’s a little … he had an operation, you know, and since then, he has a demon inside him, he thinks this Arab in Nissan, our son. He’s not your son? the midget asked, rubbing a button on his shirt. Of course not, Gina said. Nissan died when he was two, when we first came to Israel and moved into this house. And you claim that he is Nissan? the midget asked Avram, who was nodding impatiently as if even asking the question was an insult. O-o-kay, the midget said, walking over to the ladder and looking up at the Arab, who was standing on the highest rung. So all I can do is ask you, sir, who are you? I’m Saddiq, the Arab answered without stopping his work even for a second. And what are you doing here, if I may ask? This is my house, Saddiq said, and picked up the key that was hanging around his neck. Your house … interesting … the midget said, smiling crookedly. So if it is, maybe you could explain what all these people are doing here? They’re my guests, Saddiq answered as he pulled out the first brick and pointed to us: he’s my guest. She’s my guest. And that woman’s also my guest. They’ve been guests in my house for fifty years now. O-o-kay, the midget said and stuck his finger in his belt, I’m beginning to understand. And you have some papers that prove this claim of yours? Yes sir, Saddiq said and pulled the certificate out of his pocket, bent down and handed it to him. This is the land registry certificate from the Turks, he explained to the midget, it says here that this house belongs to the A’adana family, which is my family, and also all the land around it, half a dunam. The midget studied the certificate for a few seconds and then, as if he’d suddenly lost his patience, threw it on the floor and started waving his hands in the air: I don’t give a shit about the Turks! If you don’t have an official document from the Israeli government, then as far as I’m concerned, you’re trespassing! And you — he pointed at us — have to decide if you want to file a complaint against him. If you do, I handcuff him right now. If not, don’t waste our time. The Israeli Police has enough work without you wasting our time.