Hebron’s Tel Rumeida neighborhood.
The Magav pluga patrols the streets.
Ian Bloom feels the people’s eyes on him. From shuttered windows, half-opened doors, dark alleys. He feels the Palestinians’ anger. He feels their hatred for the gray Magav uniform.
Ladies sitting on stools outside their homes stop gossiping. They wait until the squad’s out of earshot.
Men around tables at outdoor cafés stop playing Shesh Besh, they stop puffing at their narghile pipes, they wait until they’re gone.
He gets it. He understands. He doesn’t blame them.
Tel Rumeida: home to thirty thousand Palestinians, fewer than a thousand Israeli settlers, all under Israeli military control.
Most Palestinians can only get in with a resident card.
Need groceries? Cross the checkpoint to the grocery store. Cross it back.
The kitchen stove ran out of propane? Hump the gas tank across the checkpoint. Hump it back. No cars allowed.
The checkpoint is two sets of revolving bulletproof glass gates. Two Magavniks—border patrol members—watch behind armored glass. Two more check documents and cargo. Another walks around, with a sniffing dog on a leash.
Yeah. He doesn’t blame them, but not blaming them doesn’t make his job easier.
Being a pluga’s odd guy out makes it harder. Harder still when his squad mates know he’s not a true Magavnik, not a border patrol member, not a true gray, not one of the few and the oh-so very proud, not one of them.
He’s on loan, detached from Din Unit, a unit so secret his squad mates don’t even know its name.
The Magavniks don’t get to ask questions. Neither does Bloom. Gods in heaven command; mere mortals like them obey.
Their orders say: Take this fake on patrol around Hebron. Take him to Tel Rumeida. Show him certain streets, some houses on a list, the back alleys behind said houses, specific shops.
Never mind if he’s trained for it or not. Never mind if he’s earned the gray uniform or not. Copy the corporal’s bars on his sleeve. Don’t ask true rank, unit, or favorite ice cream.
The Magavniks are pissed.
Their mefakedet—commander—is pissed.
Their mefakedet is Major Orit Or.
His orders: report at Central Command base with Major Or, Magav, Third Battalion. Present Major Or with sealed mission envelope. Envelope must be opened, read, burned on the spot.
His orders didn’t include standing at attention while Major Or looked him up and down. They didn’t include looking her in the eye. They didn’t include hearing her say, “So, you managed to end up under my command,” with no crooked smile behind the words, without remarking on the asimon hanging by a worn leather cord from his neck.
They didn’t include answering, “A Major now? What happened with physics at the Technion?”
“By the time my mother died, it was too late.”
Bloom didn’t say, For both of us.
She burned the mission envelope.
“You know what it said?” she said.
“Yes,” Bloom said.
“That is not what we do here. We need their trust,” she said.
“We’ll never have their trust, Orit.”
“Major Or, Corporal Bloom. As long as you serve under my command, it’s ha-mefakedet or Major Or.”
“Major Or, ma’am. We’ll never have their trust, I have a mission, and we both have our orders. There’s nothing we can do about it. Sometimes we must do the wrong thing for the right reasons. I’m not under your command, Major Or. I’m not even here. I’m not even me.”
She looked at him different then. I knew this would happen, her eyes said, but she didn’t.
She signed some paperwork. Sent him on his way.
Now Bloom’s wearing a gray uniform, patrolling the Tel Rumeida streets with four strangers who don’t trust him.
Nor should they.
“Lone Indian to Tribe Chief: Visited neighbors. Young daughter seems to be expected. Sight still unseen. Her family on the lookout for suitable suitors.”
“Tribe Chief to Lone Indian: Remain at crossroads. Make friends with hosts.”
“Lone Indian to Tribe Chief: Copy. Out.”
Bloom feels the Breguet’s crack lines under his fingertips.
I’m a Lone Indian, indeed, he thinks. We need to rope in this guy before he’s unleashed, out there, in the cold, ready to hurt other people. Let the motherfuckers try.