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A Woman of Valor Chapter One |
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"We are flying over Tel Aviv and
will be landing in a few minutes at Ben Gurion Airport."
Applause actually broke out as the wheels bumped on the tarmac and the plane landed. A
canned recording of Hava Nagila came over the loudspeaker system.
Sam sniffed in disdain. Big deal. Talk about corny. You'd think landing a plane was some sort of miracle the way everyone was carrying on. The only good thing about this flight was that it was over. The trip was a nightmare. Ultra-orthodox men dressed in long black coats to their knees, black hats, long beards and drooping curls like some fashion relic of the 1960's looked like the Diamond Exchange merchants in New York. They had blocked the entrance to the toilets, busily chanting prayers and disturbing Sam's sleep. Her neighbor, a middle-aged lady from Queens on her way to visit her grandchildren kept up a one-sided conversation.
"Visiting relatives, dear?" Sam shook her head negatively and closed her eyes.
"Spending the summer at an ulpan to learn Hebrew?" Again, another negative response.
"Volunteering on a kibbutz for the summer? Wait until you see those adorable Israeli soldiers." The woman sighed theatrically. "If only I was your age again."
Seeing there was no way to shut the woman up, Sam mumbled a
response.
"Archeology dig," she muttered.
"How marvelous. You're very lucky to get a place on one. I would have loved to do that when I was young."
"Good. You can go in my place instead. If I had my way I'd be in Paris right now and instead I'm stuck here in this godforsaken country for the whole summer." The older woman's jaw dropped open at Sam's bitter reply, finally out of conversation.
Sam settled back in the seat. She didn't mean to be rude, she simply wasn't in the mood for any chatter. In a few minutes she'd be landing in a place she didn't want to be, stuck because her father had the idiotic idea she needed to discover some Jewish roots and get out of America as fast as possible. The owner of Pinkman's Departments Stores seemed to manage without those Jewish roots for most of his life. His determined attempt to re-connect which included shipping his only child off to the Promised Land for the whole summer had more to do with finding a way out of her latest fiasco as fast as possible.
Sam reddened in embarrassment recalling the humiliating episode before she was hastily shipped out of the country to avoid any further scandal. Like an annoying broken record, it played over and over again in her head.
"Daddy please," Sam had pleaded.
Her eyes damp with tears; she had begged her father to change his mind. Any optimism that
her prayers would be answered at the last minute were dashed when she saw his stony
expression. Daddy wouldn't budge an inch.
"Sorry Daddy but this is your fault too. You never let me--"
"That's enough Sam. No daughter of mine is going to bring disgrace on the family. Your antics with that photographer …" His angry voice trailed off.
Sam winced in recollection at the scene in her father's
office. Everybody was probably laughing at her behind her back this second.
Sam shuddered as she recalled the look on his face. It had said it all, the beet red flush
which had washed over his craggy features; his shirt collar tightened its grip, appearing
to strangle him. Sam's shoulders drooped as resignation set in that she would never
convince him to change his mind. Never allowed to do anything on her own, not even make
mistakes. Like a videotape stuck on pause, the scene played out in her brain.
"Okay, I got involved with the wrong man. How did I know what would happen? That doesn't mean you have to send me to this awful prison sentence. When are you going to let me grow up and solve my own problems? I wish, just for once, you would let me manage on my own. Can't I at least go to Paris instead?" Sam continued as she tried to justify her reasons.
Geoffrey Pinkman snorted in derision at his daughter. "Got involved with the wrong man. All you ever do is get involved with wrong men." He shook his balding head in disgust.
"You don't understand Daddy. All I ever wanted was to do something on my own merit. That's all and I got that photographer's assistant job on my own with my portfolio."
"That wasn't all you got. He hired you for one reason, and only one. That louse is a married with two kids. Were you crazy getting involved with him?"
Sam squirmed when she remembered the humiliating scene at Eric's private studio. Thinking he was interested in helping her develop her skills she arrived at the studio excited at the prospect of a famous fashion photographer teaching her portrait lighting.
"Interested in technique?" he had asked. Technique might have been the correct term, but Eric had something far different in mind for Sam. She had arrived at his studio to find him in bed with one of Pinkman's models with his cameras set up to take pictures of the whole thing. Inviting Sam to join in the fun was the most embarrassing thing to ever happen in her life. She was mortified and heartbroken. Daddy found out and as usual, stepped in. The result? Here she was, strapped to her seat 30,000 feet up, winging her way to the Promised Land.
Sam glanced out the plane window. Wispy white cotton clouds sailed passed. In the distance she saw the edges of land. They were nearly there.
"I'm no good with men." Sam muttered quietly to herself. "That's it. No more men. Never, ever." Sam resolutely crossed her arms, a symbolic gesture to ward off all men, to protect her heart.
The plane came to a halt on the tarmac. Passengers eagerly yanked open overhead bins and collected their belongings to run out the door, down the steps and onto a sort of bus to ferry them to the terminal gate. Sam was the last one to amble down the stairs. The blast of heat sent her staggering back to the cabin. The Middle East was experiencing its first hamsin, the blistering hot desert winds shattering everyone's cool and patience. Roasting hot and only April. What would it be like by June? Sam's carefully straightened hair already started curling, sticking to her damp, sweaty forehead. Great. I'll look like Harpo Marx, that great son of Israel in about five minutes.
A woman with a walkie-talkie shoved her into the vehicle. Standing room only. The bus lurched into motion pitching Sam up against a woman wearing a headscarf in the scorching heat, trying to control four children, all little. Two minutes of the jolting bus ride ended at a terminal gate. Everyone ran into the building to stand in line for girls dressed in military uniforms to examine passports.
Sam shoved her passport at one of the young women.
"Business or pleasure?"
Sam blinked at the soldier. She didn't seem more than twenty years old.
"It's no pleasure, but I guess that's the answer." Maybe they won't let me in with a bad attitude and I can go home. Sam eyed the soldier wistfully, hoping to see a glimmer of refusal on her face. No such luck. The soldier flicked through the document, typed into a computer and stamped the passport.
"Welcome to the Land of Israel."
Sam followed the others into a hall with luggage carousel belts. Everyone crowded around pushing trolleys for luggage collection. Elbowing her way through the crowd, Sam swung her leather bags onto the trolley and headed towards the Exit sign. A customs inspector stopped her and directed her to another line where he pointed to a metal table. Sam lifted her bags on the rack and snapped open the catch. He motioned to the expensive camera hanging over her shoulder. Sam opened the snap and shoved the camera in front of the man.
I could have been in Paris photographing beautiful gardens and buildings or working with a famous photographer. Instead, I'm stuck in this primitive hot house of a desert. Maybe I can produce a book about cactus. Idly, she gazed around at the spectacle at the next table. People were fighting with a customs officer about a cellular phone. Loud voices in a strange language rose all around her with wild hand gestures. Fascinated by the spectacle and mumbo-jumbo of languages, it reminded her of a United Nations tour she had taken as a schoolgirl.
With a cursory wave of the hand, the inspector motioned her forward to the end of the hall opening into the outside world. Sam strode forward resolutely. Okay, I'm stuck here but I don't have to like it, even if it does seem fascinating, in a Third World sort of way. I learned my lesson once and for all this time. I am not going to fall for this country or any of the men in it either, she resolved remembering the woman's remark on the plane about cute soldiers.
Glass doors opened into the sauna like heat again. Now what? People were lining a police barricade eagerly waiting for friends or relatives. No sign of a limousine or anyone to meet her. Taxis lined up behind them on the curb. Soldiers walked around casually with machine guns tucked casually under their arms. It was all so intimidating, even for a world traveler like Sam.
"Jerusalem, Jerusalem," shouted one of the taxi drivers, hawking riders. Sam pushed her trolley through the crowd still lining the barricades. The jerky movements knocked a bag to the ground spilling its contents over the pavement. The idiot customs inspector didn't fasten the catch properly. A rainbow of expensive, delicate lace and silk lingerie scattered on the pavement. Exasperated and impatient in the brutal heat, Sam crouched to pick up assorted cosmetics, hairbrush, a paperback book, and Evian water spray flushing at the sight of her flimsy underwear all over the pavement for the crowd to gape at with amused snickers.
A man with coal black hair and eyes stooped beside her. Jet eyes met emerald as he handed her a flimsy pink bra and panties held between his forefinger and thumb, a distasteful expression on his red face. Sam snatched the underwear from him, threw the lingerie into the bag and pushed through the crowd again.
The man turned back to the last of the departing
passengers. A worried frown crossed his handsome face. How could he have missed Sam
Pinkman? His boss, Professor Shapira said red hair, twenty-one years old, American.
Josh Ben-Sion carefully observed every passenger coming through the gate. There wasn't one
man who fit the description. The spoiled American brat probably missed the flight.
Disgusted with having wasted a whole afternoon, he turned to the waiting taxis to catch a
ride to Jerusalem.