Fifteen Faces

The poster was torn and tattered. It was time to make the rounds again, pulling down the old, weathered flyers and replacing them with crisp new images. Perhaps changing from black and white to color would bring the photos to life, reminding the public that they are still out there.  More than just faces on poles, they are children desperately needing to be found and brought home.

The prospect of this new project brought me a small degree of comfort. Doing something, anything, was better than doing nothing at all.

Thirty six days had gone by.  The seasons had changed from spring to summer in those thirty six days. The end of the school year had come and gone as graduation was celebrated without her. Seeing the class of 2024 walk across the stage, their tiny caps and gowns blowing in the gentle breeze, was not an option for me. The otherwise perfect day for the graduates and their families was marred by the empty seats and heartfelt speech by the principal. 

***

Entering the café, I headed for my corner table and sat down. No need for a waitress or menu as the owner took care of me every day since the nightmare had begun. She brought over my coffee and placed it next to my pita bread and hummus as I opened my laptop.

“Good morning, Avi,” she greeted me gently as if a good morning was even remotely possible.

I smiled, grateful for her consideration, the consistency of meals, and the lack of necessary response.

My gaze shifted around and settled on the young men and women congregating at the counter.  I felt the urgency, the red hot rage boiling up inside me mixing with the first sip of bitter coffee. Were they looking for her or socializing? I resisted approaching them, realizing that antagonization was never productive. 

“Have faith, Avi,” I reproached myself. “They have to eat just like everyone else.” Their machine guns slung over their uniformed bodies meant business, and my daughter and the fourteen other children were their business.

“Chana, where are you, baby?” I stared at my home screen, my daughter’s eyes looking back, twinkling at me unbearably. It was not possible to endure another loss; it was beyond what life would dole out with my suffering still raw after only four short years. However, I had learned long ago that there was no quota on suffering, no maximum to reach and then be spared further pain. 

I forced down a bite of food hearing Miriam’s voice in my head coaxing me to take better care of myself. 

“The terrorists have our baby,” I wailed inwardly, the last piece of my heart dissolving as I ached for my wife’s comfort. 

“I know, Avi, but now is not the time for tears. She needs your strength more than ever before. Dig deep, my love, it’s there.” Miriam soothed me, caressed me as only she could do.

“I’m trying,” I whispered to myself.

Hovering on the folder marked ‘Birthday Party’, I took a deep breath and clicked, praying for the strength to withstand the onslaught of emotion.

Chana, beautiful Chana, appeared smiling into the camera, her dark eyes filled with happiness, her features the spitting image of her mother. 

“Miriam, what joy she has brought to my life,” I called out to my wife in my mind.

After a fairly easy pregnancy, we never expected to exchange one life for another as Miriam lay on the operating table, blood overflowing into puddles on the floor. Young and healthy one moment, a white sheet pulled over her face the next, while the red-faced screaming newborn was handed to me rather than her mother for comfort.

“Miriam, it’s all my fault. Forgive me.” 

I forced the inner voice to the background as the images appeared neatly lined up on my screen.

Zooming in, I studied the photos that I hadn’t seen before, uploaded from the other parents on the kibbutz. Their smiling faces with mine absent made me sick with regret and self-loathing. What was so damned important that I had to take that phone call rather than let it go to voicemail? My lack of attention is what allowed evil in to do the unthinkable. The screams of the women and children had sliced through me as I ran out to the playground, heart pounding with fear. Too late by mere seconds as the trucks drove off with tires screeching.

“Chana, Chana…” I turned in crazed circles scanning faces, shocked expressions, madness and mayhem as I desperately searched for my daughter in the mob. I took off running after the dust in the road, then doubled back to get my car. “Too late, too late. All my fault.” I had shouted incoherently to the masses like the wild animal I had become.

Now thirty six days later I studied the images previously unseen. The other parents were present, mothers and fathers, along with grandparents and friends had been enjoying themselves in the innocence of the day.  I saw the cake being cut and distributed after five little candles were blown out. Photo after photo depicted smiling faces on a sunny afternoon.

With defenses down and feeling safe, the gathering of families was no match against the well-planned poisonous attack on our community. My presence, or lack of, was not the open door that had allowed hatred in as I had convinced myself thirty six days ago. A drop of guilt released itself, allowing some space to think and plan, to focus on getting the children back home.

I copied and pasted Chana’s photo onto a new document and typed “Bring Her Home” in both Hebrew and English across the top. Opening another window, I repeated the process, going through the list of names and faces scorched into my heart as if with a branding iron.

Fifteen faces on fifteen flyers brought me a small degree of comfort. For doing something was better than doing nothing at all. I hit ‘print’ fifteen times igniting the whir of the printer next to my abandoned desk back at the office.

***

Benjamin interrupted my thoughts as he suddenly appeared by my side with paperwork. Grateful for my business partner, I went through the pile, scribbling my name again and again at the ‘sign here’ tabs hanging off the edges.   

Then, the fifteen boxes of flyers were placed neatly on the empty chair across from me. 

“We’ll get them back, Avi.” He placed his hand on my shoulder, the weight of it giving me comfort, keeping me from being swallowed into the depths of hell. 

“From your lips to God’s ears.”