Shortly after they left, the same hard-faced guard came in to retrieve the books. I had locked my bracelets facing the room this time, because I wanted to get a last glimpse of the blue whales, the stars and planets and cheap romance before they were taken from me forever.

“Otva`li, mu`dak, b`lyad!” I yelled, bound to the wall by my bracelets.

We were both shocked: me, because she understood.

She turned to me, her hard face replaced with a smile. I smiled too, and said it again. Fuck off, you asshole, fuck!

She laughed, and so did I. She put her hand on her chest and said, “Klara,” nodding as she walked out, the metal door closing with an automated clang.

The next day, my whale book was pushed through the door opening.

That’s how Klara became my friend, or what could pass for a friend in the Cube. She speaks to me sometimes through the speaker, since the camera doesn’t record sound, even though I don’t fully understand what she says. She would be reprimanded if they knew. She told me that. I keep my mouth shut because I like her. Sometimes I remember that I should not like her. But I am always excited when she is on duty. She doesn’t consider herself Israeli. She’s Russian. Her family forced her to leave with them, and she desperately wants to return to her village. She’s not even Jewish. She said her father made it all up to get the state subsidies for Jews willing to emigrate to Israel. It was free money, plus her father was close to being caught for embezzling. She hated her father. And she missed her boyfriend. She apologized for not getting more books. I should add that the things she tells me are my interpretations of the broken English, Arabic, and Hebrew we use to communicate. I asked if I could get books about communism. She said, “Da, naverna.” Yeah, probably.

I fell asleep thinking about the dark, hairy forearm below a rolled-up white sleeve.

The Layers of Absence

THE LAYERS OF ABSENCE

I WAS TOLD to expect difficulties from Israeli border authorities when crossing the Jordan River into Palestine, but it wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. I was interrogated. Searched. Searched again. They would not accept the Palestinian ID that Jehad had worked hard to reinstate because it did not appear in their system. They said this was not uncommon because it takes time for new hawiyyas since the Oslo Accords to update in their system. Hours later, they stamped my Jordanian travel document with a three-month tourist visa. One of my interrogators, whose sense of power had been irrepressible and somewhat exhibitionist in the way she ordered me around, pointed to my plump belly and asked, “You have baby?”

Bitch.