Wherever You Go by Joan Leegant is a thematically complex novel examining the lives of three Jewish Americans who have traveled to Israel.  All three find themselves in Israel because they seek atonement in varying forms, but often atonement must be made with sacrifice.  The book examines both political and religious extremism as it collides with democracy in the Middle East, but perhaps even more importantly the book examines the overwhelming human need to feel accepted, to feel like we belong to something bigger than ourselves.  Leegant’s prose is beautiful and her knowledge of Israel makes this novel come alive.

Yona Stern travels to Israel to seek forgiveness from her sister for a past sin.  The book opens with Yona’s arrival at the airport, and the novel in many ways is about why Jewish Americans travel to Israel.  “The metallic clanging.  The loudspeakers blaring in five languages. The luggage carousel coughed up its half-digested suitcases.”  Leegant is masterful with descriptions throughout the novel, and this opening scene will undoubtedly be familiar to many readers who have made the journey.

This is not Yona’s first trip to Israel.  In fact, her grievous sin against her sister was committed on a past trip.  The reader learns from the customs agent that the name Yona means dove in Hebrew.  Her sister’s name, Dena, means judgment.  Dena, a mother of five and pregnant again, is part of the settlement movement, which is viewed as radical by some.  She is stoic and unrelenting.  The symbolism in the novel is clear.

The second character the novel follows is Mark Greenglass, an ex-drug dealer turned talented Talmud teacher.  While the novel opens with Yona arriving in Israel, the first time the reader meets Mark he is stepping off a train in New York having come from Israel to deliver a series of lectures.  Leegant writes:

He was a fake. An imposter. It was all falling apart and he couldn’t stop it. He ought to pull off the yarmulke, the tzitzit fringes, throw them into the trash.  Everything was unraveling and he didn’t know why, only that it was slipping away from him like so much water from his fingertips.  One day it’s the organizing principle of your life, and the next it’s nothing. Gone, evaporated.

Mark is struggling with his faith, but like Yona, the internal struggle is tied to the aching need for atonement.  As he thinks about how he has skipped the morning and afternoon prayers, he muses:

And now he was going to skip them all again.  In the place where the whole business began. New York. Where he’d descended with Regina and climbed back out alone.  The irony was not lost on him.  He was giving it up in the place where all that hot desire for the holy had first taken root.

While in New York, Mark wants to help Regina, his first love.  Religion saved him, but he left her behind.  She is caught in the nightmare of drug addiction, and now he is wavering in the very thing that took him away.

Also like Yona, Mark feels ostracized by his family.  Mark’s father, Lenny, is all business and money.  He has no interest in religion or art or anything remotely emotional.  Yona and Dena are polar opposites, as are Mark and his father.

The third main character in the novel is the one that ultimately brings them all together.  Aaron Blinder is a young college dropout, lost and lonely in the world.  As I said before, the symbolism is clear. Aaron is appropriately named.

He, like Yona and Mark, is a family outcast.  His lack of ambition and series of failures embarrasses his father, a famous Jewish American writer whose books focus on the Holocaust.  Aaron desperately wants to be a part of something important.  He wants to be a success.  He wants his father to look at him with pride.  While living in an extremist commune on the edge of Israeli territory, not fitting in, not respected by the Israelis:

He felt the hand of the almighty Avenger guiding him, touching him on his very shoulder, looking down at him from this cracked ceiling in this miserable outpost on the edge of the scorpion desert where a hundred battles had been fought and where so much blood had soaked into the earth that even the mountains had turned red.

Aaron’s naiveté and desperation blindly leads him to violence, which brings the characters together and becomes the denouement of the novel.

I really enjoyed the novel because there are so many layers of themes, symbols, and character conflicts.  There are the main characters with their personal conflicts and stories- the theme of atonement through sacrifice.  On another level they represent Jewish Americans who feel drawn to Israel for political and religious reasons.  They want to be a part of something bigger and more important than themselves; yet, as a taxi driver tells Yona in the novel:

“Americans will always be new. No matter how long they’re here… They could be here thirty years, even fifty, and they’ll still be new. Except maybe if they shed blood.  Then maybe someone might say they belong.”

At one point Eyal, an Israeli, tells Yona:

“The radical settlers I know, and believe me, I have a few in my family closet, they need black and white.  They don’t like the gray… they like absolutes.  And drama.  They don’t want to be ordinary people thinking about car payments and bank overdraft.  They want a big life.  Historical, theatrical.”

And this ideology drives Aaron to action.  It is the tension between the epic history of the land and everyday life in a democracy.  Leegant captures the nuances and themes in beautiful prose.

Wherever You Go was published in paperback in July 2011 by W.W. Norton.  Leegant won the Edward Lewis Wallant Award for the best book of Jewish American fiction for her collection of short stories, An Hour in Paradise.  She lives half the year in New England and half in Israel where she teaches at Bar-Ilan University.  I look forward to reading more of her work.

 

 


Shop Indie Bookstores

Sebastian Junger’s War will be for the Afghanistan war what Michael Herr’s Dispatches was for the Vietnam War.  By capturing the unabashed experience of a platoon of soldiers in Afghanistan’s Korengal Valley, Junger has captured the essence of this war for this generation.  He doesn’t debate politics, because the politics of it all mean very little to the men fighting.  What matters is their collective survival and doing their job.   Junger uses biology, psychology, and military history to put what these men are going through mentally and physically into context.

Junger made five trips into the Korengal Valley over the course of a year.  He writes this about the valley:

The Korengal Valley is sort of the Afghanistan of Afghanistan: too remote to conquer, too poor to intimidate, too autonomous to buy off.  The Soviets never made it past the mouth of the valley and the Taliban didn’t dare go in there at all.

It is a sparsely populated slit of steep mountainsides and draws near Pakistan, and it was the most dangerous posting in Afghanistan.  It is nicknamed the Valley of Death.  The U.S. withdrew all troops from the valley a month before Junger’s book was published, stating a shift in strategy in the larger war effort.

Junger follows several men more than others, but he never delves into one soldier’s character completely.  They are a collective, and they operate as a whole.  He finds that the best fighting men are the worst garrison soldiers.  They’re troublemakers.  In fact the platoon has a tradition of beating all new members, including officers.  They beat guys when they go to and come back from R&R.  The only way you can leave without getting beaten is to be wounded or dead. Speaking of being poor garrison soldiers, one soldier states, “Okay, I got to shine my fucking boots.  Why do I care about shining my goddamn boots?”  But these are the men you want with you in a firefight.

The sheer physical toil of the war is almost unbelievable.  The men tote 80 to 100 pound packs up and down steep slopes.  The rocks shred their clothes. They carve an outpost out of mountainside in the middle of the night.  The outposts are infested with fleas and tarantulas.  And not least of all, they receive enemy fire on almost a daily basis. Junger states that the men reek of ammonia because they have burned all the fat from their bodies and are now burning muscle.

The only thing worse than the physicality of the war is the psychological strain.  One soldier compares the rush of adrenaline from a firefight to crack, and many of the mean don’t know how they will handle returning to the States.  Junger writes:

The attention to detail at a base like Restrepo forced a kind of clarity on absolutely everything a soldier did until I came to think of it as a kind of Zen practice: the Zen of not fucking up.  It required a high mindfulness because potentially everything had consequences.

Of course the war in Afghanistan has its own peculiarities, but it is still war.  It shares what all wars have in common. When one of the men discusses signing back up after his tour despite all of the terror and violence he has experienced, Junger writes:

War is a big and sprawling word that brings a lot of human suffering into the conversation, but combat is a different matter.  Combat is the smaller game that young men fall in love with, and any solution to the human problem of war will have to take into account the psyches of these young men.  For some reason there is a profound and mysterious gratification to the reciprocal agreement to protect another person with your life, and combat is virtually the only situation in which that happens regularly.  These hillsides of loose shale and holly trees are where the men feel not most alive- that you can get skydiving- but the most utilized.  The most necessary.  The most clear and certain and purposeful.  If young men could get that feeling at home, no one would ever want to go to war again, but they can’t.

Sebastian Junger and photographer Tim Hetherington filmed a Sundance award-winning documentary about their experiences with Battle Company in the Korengal Valley.  The film is name Restrepo, after the base carved in the mountainside.  The base was named after a medic who was killed.

Shop Indie Bookstores

 

In 2004 I escorted a group of students who really wanted to see the International Spy Museum, in addition to the usual landmarks and museums, to Washington D.C. Being the geek that I am, I thought it was a cool idea and off we went.  The special exhibit at that time was about the history of terrorism in the United States.  What I found interesting, and what I think most people forget, is that terrorism is not a new concept, and it’s definition is often muddied by subjectivity.

In December of 1910, a group of Latvian revolutionaries killed three London policemen when a jewelry store heist went wrong.  Viewed as an act of terrorism by Londoners of the time, this is the pivotal event in Jon Stephen Fink’s A Storm in the Blood. Fink takes the readers into the streets of Edwardian England as seen through the eyes of political refugees and immigrants.  It’s violent, dirty, and hateful.

Although the book is based on the true story of the Houndsditch Murders and the Siege of Sidney Street, the story follows the fictional character Rivka, a Latvian refugee who has to run for her live after her father tries to kill a Russian Cossack.  She is transported to England and is taken in by a group of Latvian revolutionaries who respect what her father did.   As events both fictional and historical progress, Rivka falls for Peter Piatkow, an intelligent revolutionary who is beginning to question the movement. Rivka decides she wants to participate in the next planned “action.” As we know from history, things do not go as planned, and it all ends tragically for three policemen and many of the revolutionaries, some of whom may not have even been involved.  But mysteriously and historically, Peter managed to escape.

Fink’s pacing is superb. The book is a page turner.  His characters are well-developed, and his phrasing even hints to the fact that he’s a poet.  The dialogue feels authentic.  During the siege, one revolutionary remembers when he was a child he saw an older boy torment a cow:

…The boy went over to her, picked up the rock, took a few steps back and threw the rock again. She went down on her front legs… I couldn’t watch anymore. Jesu, the pity of it. He was older than me by five years and a stronger fighter. This house is ours. Mine. I’ll struggle for it. You come to take it from me, now you’re notified. I’m no cow in a field.

And that leads to Fink’s real accomplishment. He subtly captures that underneath all the fiery causes and rhetoric, these revolutionaries, these “terrorists,” just want the same things all humans want- safe, autonomous, productive lives, and maybe a little love and beauty thrown in for good measure. I say “subtly” because Fink isn’t heavy-handed.  He isn’t making a political statement.  He doesn’t condone their actions or reasoning.  The revolutionaries are often selfish, stupid, and petty- as all humans are time to time.

The book is entertaining, but it also hits on those nagging questions about the human condition that make good books sink to the bone.

© 2011 Wilson Knut's Witticisms Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha