Game of silence, p.33
Game of Silence, page 33
“The Association for the Advancement of Golf?” wondered David Wiesenstein.
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
David procrastinated for a few minutes, and with a brow-squinting look drawn from the depths of his memory, the old code words he’d heard from Meir Harari almost a decade earlier, were revived. “Ahh, the Association for the Advancement of Golf,” he laughed to himself. He never played golf. In fact, he hated that boring game.
They met at the IDF annual Gala evening organized by an Israeli-American billionaire. As in every year, this event was the focus of the Israeli establishment to rub shoulders with the most successful and wealthy American Jews. The status gained by Professor David Wiesenstein as a senior heart surgeon, world-renowned and accomplished, with titles and awards, gave him a place of honor at the event. The kind that allowed him access to the person who was just appointed deputy to the head of the Mossad, Meir Harari. The connection made between them that night was instantaneous. When the evening ended, they both turned towards the parking lot, continuing their lengthy friendly conversation under the star-filled sky of the “angel city” that twinkled on top of the sea waves. Their wives turned away to have a conversation on their own, allowing them some privacy.
“I have to tell you,” said David to Meir when they realized it was time to depart, “that it was a great pleasure to finally get to meet you in person, after decades of hearing about your antics during my regular service in the army.”
“So, you’ve heard?” Meir laughed and placed a friendly hand on David’s shoulder, “I don’t know what you heard about me, but I wouldn’t believe any of it if I were you.”
Professor David Wiesenstein was a full-fledged Israeli. His American roots were given to him by his mother, a Jewish woman born and raised in New-York who immigrated to Israel during the sixties, following her heart and marriage to his father. He enlisted in the army like everyone else, was a combat medic in a regular paratrooper unit, and at the end of his military service he travelled to study medicine at the Harvard School of Medicine. He completed his studies with honors, and rushed to specialize in thoracic and heart surgery. After several years of working in the field, in the busiest wards of American hospitals, the road to success was opened to him and looked promising. Not many years had passed of senior positions and esteemed groundbreaking research before his skills and determination led him to the top of the medical world as the most senior and world-renowned surgeon in his field. The intensity of the work did not allow him to come to Israel often, but there was nothing in his status and fortune he’d accumulated that could make him forget his beloved homeland. He defined himself as a proud Israeli.
“Believe me I miss those days,” David Wiesenstein said silently. “The battalion, the unit, Israel. I have become too American.”
“You’re a good man, Mr. Wiesenstein, even if you’re American,” laughed Meir and their embrace turned mutual, tight, and warm. “I had a great night too. It’s been a while since I enjoyed a good conversation like the one I had tonight. I sincerely hope we will get the opportunity to meet again.”
“Of course we will, and if not – we’ll make it happen.” It was evident that Professor Wiesenstein was excited and found it hard to say goodbye. “And you, Meir Harari, swear to me that should you need help, any help – don’t think twice and simply call. Certainly if it is heart-related, but even if it’s not, I will be more than happy to assist you in any way I can.”
“I deeply appreciate it,” said Meir, “It’s totally mutual, yes? The only thing is that our professions don’t exactly coincide. I would even go as far as to say that there is a kind of conflict of interest between them. In my profession, we usually make sure people are sent to the afterlife. In your profession, you are trying to prevent people from getting there. But it doesn’t matter. If you need something I can help you with – I am always available for you.”
“Meaning,” said David, “if for instance I have a neighbor I would like to eliminate, yes?” They both burst into laughter, patting each other on the shoulder with manly pats of closeness and affection.
When their laughter subsided, Meir asked as if from nowhere: “Tell me, do you play golf?”
“No,” David answered in wonder.
“Great, me neither,” said Meir. “So if ever someone comes to you and tells you that Meir from the ‘Association for the Advancement of Golf’ sent him, know that it is I who is seeking your help.”
“The Association for the Advancement of Golf,” David memorized with a smile and sighed slightly. “I couldn’t have thought of a more boring code name than that,” and again they both laughed until their wives came along and separated them.
Now Professor Wiesenstein rushed to get up from the family dinner table with a fake smile on his face. “I’ll be right back,” he blurted to his surprised wife, “it’s probably just a simple matter.”
The opening of the door exposed him to the New York cold of the windswept North-Atlantic Ocean line of early November. Standing in front of him was an unfamiliar figure, with a distinct Middle-Eastern appearance.
Even before he managed to wonder who he was and what brought him to his doorstep, the man at the door said in perfect Hebrew: “Shabbat Shalom. I truly apologize for disturbing you on a Friday evening, I know how unpredictable it is, but we have a mutual friend who urgently needs your help. Help on an international scale. He asked me to come on his behalf to relay the urgency of the matter, and to remind you of the Association for the Advancement of Golf.”
David stood there silent for a moment, examining the uninvited guest, trying to remember, planning his next steps. After a few seconds of awkwardness, he asked in Hebrew that time had given a distinctive American accent. “The advancement of golf in Israel?”
“That’s right,” said the man at the door and introduced himself. “Yoram Harel, I was sent on behalf of Meir Harari. He sends his warm regards.
David gestured with his hand and added: “Shabbat Shalom. Come inside, it’s cold out here.”
He led Yoram Harel, the Mossad’s representative in New York, inside to the hallway, and the two climbed the stairs, making slight squeaking noises on the oak parquet with every step they took towards Professor David Wiesenstein’s study on the second floor. David closed the door behind them and the two sat opposite each other in the brown leather chairs which complemented the antique appearance of the room.
“So, what does the Israeli Golf Association have to say on this cold autumn evening?” David opened with a smile.
“First of all, it’s very nice to meet you, and I apologize for barging in like that in the middle of a family dinner,” said Yoram Harel. As you probably understand, I work with Meir Harari in the same office. There are some things that unfortunately I am not at liberty to share with you, due to considerations I assume that you understand yourself, and therefore I will simply get to the matter at hand. We are talking about a five-year old Saudi girl who suffers from a rare heart defect and is currently hospitalized at a hospital in Riyadh. She’s stable but critical, and her days are numbered.”
Yoram stopped his flow of speech and reached for his coat pocket. He pulled out a disc container and said: “All her medical information is right here together with imaging and MRI scans done on her.”
Wiesenstein’s natural curiosity was replaced with medical curiosity. “Shall we see what’s going on there, in her heart? Or would you like to first tell me how a Saudi girl is connected to Harari and to Israel?” David asked and reached out to take the disc from Yoram Harel.
Yoram gave him the disc and said: “As much as it may sound strange to you in the context of a five-year old Saudi girl, believe me that if I am here, bothering you on the eve of Shabbat – it’s only because of the paramount importance it has on the security of the State of Israel.”
Wiesenstein inserted the disc into the drive of the computer on his desk, and examined the images, scans, and documents one by one. After a few minutes of silently viewing the pathological findings, he looked at Yoram with a stern face and said: “I hope the horses haven’t left the stable yet,” and immediately asked: “When can the girl get here? Or did you mean I will fly to Saudi Arabia to operate on her?”
“She’s already on her way to the United States,” updated Yoram. “The agency organized a special medical transport flight for her. Tomorrow at six-thirty New York time, she is expected to land at JFK airport. With the hope that she survives the flight and the transition to the hospital. She’s sedated, ventilated, and under tight medical supervision.”
Wiesenstein raised a brow. His many years in the American culture made him forget the Israeli audacity according to which it is customary to act even before one asks for permission. He was even slightly offended. “You people call it ‘operation fact’, if I recall correctly,” he smiled, “and what if I had refused? What if precisely tomorrow I am expected to have another extremely urgent operation?”
“I don’t engage in hypothetical speculations, since you have already agreed,” Yoram added insult to injury. “All I can tell you is that this matter’s level of importance to the entire country is so high, that if I had to fly the Prime Minister himself over here to convince you, I would have.”
“Okay, okay,” said Wiesenstein. Despite the Israeli audacity, I am in, of course. I do not need my conscience rattled, and never mind the Prime Minister, it’s enough for me to know that Meir Harari is behind the request and that my professional contribution can help the State of Israel.”
“I really appreciate this,” said Yoram, “Truly, and I thank you very much, both in the name of the ‘Association for the Advancement of Golf’ as well as in the name of the country.” He smiled slightly in relief.
“Let’s just hope there’s an available operating room in my ward,” said the professor, and wrote a phone number on a piece of paper giving it to Yoram. “Take. My secretary’s name is Kylie. Tell her I asked to book the operating room for me for tomorrow at quarter to seven in the evening, along with my team.
“I will call her immediately,” said Yoram and gave Wiesenstein a business card. “Send the bill to the fax number written here, and we will pay you immediately, don’t worry. At the end this ‘operation fact’, you’ll see it will be worth your while.”
They both gave a big smile and shook hands. “It’s alright,” said Wiesenstein as they left the room into the second floor hall, “saving lives is a good deed for me as a doctor and as a person, and saving lives for the State of Israel is a mitzvah for me as a Jew.” He escorted Yoram Harel to the door, and holding the handle he said goodbye with the wave of his hand and added: “Give my warm regards to Harari also.”
When he returned to the Shabbat table, his face all lit up, his wife looked at him seeking an explanation. “An emergency surgery,” he whispered in her ear. “Details – later,” he said and savored the juicy piece of meat that was placed before him.
The next day, a little before midnight, Professor David Weisenstein crossed the corridor leading from the operating room to the waiting room. The glass door opened automatically to the sides, and he immediately recognized Hammed Abu Tura’an and his wife Sara sitting in the chairs. They waited for him with eerie eyes, both anticipating and anxious by what he had to say. Within a minute he moved from running a life-saving operation to conducting a heartfelt conversation with a tense family which was swaying between hope and despair. For decades he has been replacing his surgeon’s gown with the psychologist couch in a split second, the scalpels with tissues to wipe the tears, and he is still caught by surprise, time and time again, by how much the ordeal outside the operating room moves him.
A meter away from them, he stood still and smiled warmly at them. “The surgery was a success,” he said. “Soon you will be able to go into the recovery room and see her, but she is expected to wake up only in an hour or two. She will not be able to speak at first. She has an oxygen mask on her face, a saliva sucker in her mouth, a nasogastric tube up her nose and IV lines in her arms. But we will gradually remove all these gadgets and you will begin to recognize that it is your beautiful girl.
Jasmine Abu Tura’an’s parents were beside themselves with joy. Choked by tears of excitement, Hammed Abu Tura’an grabbed professor Wiesenstein’s hands and began kissing them. He found it hard to utter any words, and his voice mixed excited laughter with bursts of crying. The tension was released.
A little embarrassed, Professor David Wiesenstein gently pulled out his hands from Hammed’s grip, and placed his hand on the shoulder of the excited father.
“So, does this mean that everything is alright?” Sara Abu Tura’an, the mother, asked pleadingly. “Will our Jasmine live?”
“Yes,” replied David in a confident voice. “This means that everything is fine. She will live, sure. She was very lucky; I don’t know how she managed to survive the attack and this entire journey. You have a really tough child. A true survivor.”
“We don’t know how to thank you, Professor Weisenstein,” said Hammed Abu Tura’an. “You are simply an angel.”
“No, I’m just a handyman,” he laughed, “We did a small renovation on her heart.”
“I am a contractor, professor!” Hammed Abu Tura’an burst into a tearful laughter, “I renovate houses, apartments! But a heart renovation – that’s the work of angels.”
At that moment, Ziad Salah, who returned from a short break he took from the long waiting he had alongside Sara and Hammed Abu Tura’an, returned to the waiting room. When Hammed saw him, he ran to him and hugged him, and in a sobbing laughter he said: “the surgery was a success! She is going to live!”
Everyone was hugging everyone, with excitement that intensified in the realization that little Jasmine’s life had been saved, until after a few minutes David Weisenstein’s voice was heard saying: “We still have a way to go, she is looking at recovering and recuperating from the surgery, and she will need to be under complete supervision and observation for some time, to see that her body gets stronger and heals. I will see you in an hour and a half - two hours in the recovery room next to her bed. Right now I need to go back to the operating room.”
“We can’t thank you enough, professor,” said Hammed to David who turned on his way back to the operating room, and after taking a deep breath he said to Salah-Avner in a tearful voice: “I can’t believe I had the fortune of meeting people like you and your daughter.”
“We were just the messengers, the miracle is from Allah,” said Avner Hevroni in a humble gesture.
“How can I ever thank you?” asked Hammed Abu Tura’an, “My debt to you is for generations to come. Even if I will try my whole life, I will not be able to repay you.”
27.
Your homeland needs you
The Abu Tura’an family returned to their home in Saudi Arabia faster than expected, healthy and excited. No less surprising was the reception they received as they got off the plane at the Riyadh airport, accompanied by their new and close friend-patron, Ziad Salah. Male and female flight attendants presented them with a huge bouquet of roses, and an honorary guard of four royal palace guards in uniform adorned by medals, presented them with a gift package on which it was written: Good health, heroes, and welcome back to the homeland”. One of the guards exchanged looks of agreement with Ziad Salah, and said to Hammed Abu Tura’an: “Come with me, an especially important person is waiting to meet you.”
Hammed Abu Tura’an could not have imagined being received in his country after this rare surgery, with such royal honor. It was even less possible for him to imagine who that important person was, that was waiting for them at the royal reception held in their honor for the return of their healthy little girl. Who could have imagined that such a common family would gain the status of a national icon?!
They were led by the honorary guard through polished corridors, and entered into an elegant space with an impressive door at the end. In the center there was a shiny mahogany wooden table, and next to it, drinking a cup of coffee was one of the most well-known and popular celebrities of the Saudi kingdom, Tawfiq Al Masbuth. When he saw the delegation arriving in the room, he rose from his seat and approached Hammed Abu Tura’an.
Hammed froze on the spot. The man standing before him, he knew, is second in importance and power to the Saudi king. Tawfiq Al Masbuth, the kingdom’s great Intelligence Chief, in the flesh, had come here to meet him and his family to congratulate them on little Jasmine’s recovery! Even before he managed to think how he should react, Tawfiq Al Masbuth came closer and hugged him in a way which shattered all class differences between them.
“Peace be upon you and welcome the healthy,” said Al Masbuth to them.
Hammed Abu Tura’an’s voice choked. “Thank you, thank you, I am simply… overwhelmed. I am simply… how did you arrange all this?”
Al Masbuth widened his smile, and tapped on Hammed’s shoulder. “The Saudi homeland knows to give credit and help when needed,” he replied to Hammed, and again exchanged looks with Ziad Salah. According to this agreed upon signal, Ziad-Avner quietly asked Sara and little Jasmine to take their leave from the father, and to come with him to the large playroom in the terminal, so that the little one could have some fun there while her father was having a private conversation with the kingdom’s senior chief.
Now they sat comfortably one opposite the other alone in the room. Al Masbuth poured coffee into the two cups on the table and gave one to Hammed.
