Martyrs’ Crossing by Amy Wilentz Read Free Book Online

Israeli.”
    â€œWe would hate anyone who took our land away from us. We believe we are at war—that’s why we’re negotiating a peace. You can’t have a war and then get squeamish because people die. The Israelis never said sorry when they blew up the British, and why should they have?”
    â€œYou don’t even really believe in peace, do you?”
    George felt defensive.
    â€œI believe in peace, but this is a loser’s peace,” George said. “It’s corrupt, the people who are doing it are corrupt.” Said it so many times; it was his refrain. He picked up his prescription pad and put it down again. “Victory is for winners, peace is for losers. The only reason the Chairman wants this peace is because he’s old and tired and desperate.”
    â€œBetter to just go on shooting innocent people and tossing crippled men off boats, and like that, right?” Joe asked. “Is that your argument?”
    â€œCome on, Joe, you know me.” George was truly appalled. He knew these feelings lurked out there, but he’d rarely had them addressed to him in person. He preferred being criticized in print, where it was less emotionally immediate, and he could respond logically and calmly. “You know I don’t believe in cruelty.”
    â€œI don’t know anything about you except that you’re one of the best cardiologists in the world.” Joe was standing now, holding his newspaper as if it were Exhibit A. “I don’t want to fight with you. Actually, I thought you’d be as revolted as I am by this attack.”
    â€œYou did.”
    â€œI did. I hoped, anyway. But I won’t pursue it, George,” Joe said. He looked down at the Shirvan. “You’re too important in my life right now for me to feel comfortable saying what I really think. Maybe some other time.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I think you’ve made your feelings clear,” George said. He hoped he didn’t sound huffy.
    â€œSorry if I’ve upset you,” Joe said.
    â€œNot at all, believe me. I’m used to it.” George felt Joe was now trying to placate his wife’s doctor. That he was nervous. Poor guy.
    â€œI know you’re not well, either,” Joe said. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
    â€œI’m fine.” George bristled. He looked up from his desk. “Just fine.”
    â€œWell, that’s good to hear.” Joe picked up his coat. “Carol was worried.”
    â€œYou tell her not to worry,” George said. “I’ll tell her not to worry. She has enough to worry about without adding me to the list.” The two men shook hands.
    â€œThanks for everything, George,” Joe said. He walked out of the office, his shoulders drooping.
    Down in the parking lot, George walked through the slush to his reserved space, but his car wasn’t there. He stood for a moment in wonder. Had it been stolen? Impossible. The locks and alarms on it were too good, the parking lot too well protected for a car thief to consider. He was befuddled. He felt lost and stranded. How would he get home? He would have to call a cab. He turned back to the hospital entrance, resigned, when he remembered. Of course. He had parked the car elsewhere. After his panic of the morning, he hadn’t wanted it sitting in the space marked DR. GEORGE RAAD. Now, the car was anonymous. But lost. Lost in the Peter Bent’s enormous visitors’ lot. What an ass he was. George the Worm. The intended victim, indeed. An old ass. Was this how he seemed to Ahmed’s boys? Worse, was this how he seemed to Ahmed?
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    D ORON HELD ON to the phone like a lifeline. The boy didn’t look so bad, but he was straining for breath.
    â€œSee?” his mother said. “See?” She tugged on Doron’s sleeve. “It’s getting worse, it’s getting worse. I can’t wait for your