Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 10 of ?

10

The solicitor’s office lay on the second floor of a derelict building in the quieter part of town, tucked between a bakery and a pharmacy. The entrance hall was narrow with a directory plate that had been polished so often the letters had faded and become blurred at the edges.

The reception itself was small and gave off a cosy vibe, unlike what I had mentally prepared for. What immediately caught my attention was the low bookshelf on one of the walls with several legal journals. I guess it was the only thing that gave away that I was at the right place.

A young woman in a navy blouse stood behind the counter, chewing gum and playing with her hair. She glanced up from her screen as I carefully drew closer, clearing my throat. Had I not, she might not have noticed me at all.

“Name?” she asked.

“It’s—” I held out my passport.”—“Sami.”

Her eyes narrowed as I said this, as if she was pondering something that eluded me, then checked the ID, tapped at her keyboard, and nodded.

“You’re expected. Please take a seat.”

The chairs in the waiting room were firm and uncomfortable to say the least, but I stayed seated anyway. While waiting, I let my eyes drift to a framed print of Jerusalem’s Old City hanging on the wall. The colours were… off. Not sure on how to describe it, but the colours seemed to have faded due to the passage of time and become muted.

The whole place was quiet, save for the incessant sound coming from the receptionist and the buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights now and then. But I didn’t mind the silence. Not after what happened earlier. I was still unsure of it all, whether I had dreamed or seen something that shouldn’t exist.

I had fallen asleep – I must’ve had. But that didn’t mean the creature wasn’t real; it had entered my dream. I clearly remember it not being able to move past the pathway leading in and out of the burial ground, which meant something had caused it to reach out to me this way instead. But why such desperation?

“Sir? Please, this way.”

I followed the receptionist into a larger office at the back. Nothing too huge, but compared to my expectations, pretty large. Inside, a single window with blinds was halfway drawn, with a wide desk at the centre where the papers were stacked in neat piles. Behind it sat the solicitor I had been in contact with these past few weeks, but never formally met until now.

She was middle-aged and dressed in a grey blazer. Her glasses sat low on her nose, and her hair was slicked back neatly. It was easy to see that she had been in this business long enough to know every crack in the law there was. And this insight equally scared and amazed me at the same time. The question gnawing at me at the time was why. Why had she suddenly decided to help me, a stranger to her, not to mention someone of Palestinian descent? It made no sense to me. But as our conversation deepened in the following minutes, I think I understood why she did what she did.

“Mr Sami,” she said, extending a hand, before gesturing for me to sit. “Welcome to Israel. Couldn’t have been easy to navigate, but I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” I began. “Truthfully, I’m still trying to process… everything. I knew my grandfather had some standing once, but I didn’t think there was, you know, any property left in our name. Not after the last siege. I hope I don’t come off as rude. I’m just… surprised, I guess.”

“Not at all. Take a look.”

She opened one of the folders in front of her, sliding several papers across the desk before turning the headings towards me. “Legal Hebrew” was stamped on each paper with the local municipal crest. English annotations were typed in dense columns for me to understand what I was looking at.

“As I mentioned in our call, the burial ground has stood without clear ownership for some years. The municipality, therefore, decided to conduct a standard investigation into heirs. Your aunt, Amal, was listed as the last registered caretaker and heir.”

“And?”

“She has been declared legally deceased due to failed attempts to contact and locate her whereabouts. If she’s alive, she’s no longer in Israel. That leaves succession. Normally, these kinds of properties revert to the state. In this case, however,”—she tapped one of the pages lightly with her nail—“you are the closest identifiable heir.”

I frowned. “But there’s something I don’t understand. I didn’t know there was anything to inherit until you contacted me. My family fled when everything we owned was destroyed and then re-registered as Jewish property. The burial ground… it shouldn’t have been ours.”

“It isn’t ownership in the usual sense,” she corrected. “Think of it as stewardship. Custodianship, if you will. You’d be recognised as the legal caretaker. That carries responsibilities like the upkeep of the grounds, maintaining access, on the condition that you reside in the village for a minimum of six months, of course. After all that, the claim becomes binding.”

I leaned back, frustrated by the fact that she kept avoiding my question.

“But why now? Why contact me at all? If this is routine, wouldn’t the land just revert to the state as you just said?”

For the first time, her composure shifted slightly, and something in her eyes told me she was actually surprised by my adamant attempts to pressure her into telling me exactly what was going on – not just what she thought I wanted to hear.

“Let me be frank with you, then, Mr Sami,” she said. “The municipality noticed discrepancies when the case was reviewed. And with the new bill about to be passed in the Knesset about unclaimed Palestinian properties, there’s been greater scrutiny. They prefer to identify heirs where possible, at least on record.”

“But why me?” I pressed. “Why reach out personally if it’s just procedure?”

Her eyes held mine for a moment too long before she looked back down at the papers. “Because your name appeared in the file. And once a name is there, the process follows. Beyond that…” She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “The system doesn’t explain its choices to us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She exhaled. “I’ve already said more than I should, Mr Sami. What matters now is your decision. You’re free to refuse, but if you do, the property reverts to the state.”

I glanced down at the paperwork, columns of clauses and stipulations blurring together in a chaotic mess, on repeat. Six months, residency requirement, custodianship… Those same words, over and over again, blurring together, becoming one.

I stopped breathing and met her eyes.

“And if I don’t sign?”

“Then the claim is void, and the property is absorbed by the municipality.”

“How long can I delay it… the decision, that is.”

“Three days. You have three days to decide.”

I rose slowly. “I see. One more question, Mrs Harris.”

She folded her hands. “Go ahead.”

“My aunt. You said she was declared legally dead. Is there any way for me to access her case file?”

“Well, hard to say. You’d have to petition the court to prove your relation to her in the best case.”

“There’s no other way?” I insisted. “I’d like to know more about what was done to find her.”

For the first time, something softened in her face, and a sigh escaped her. I could see then that she knew exactly with what kind feelings I had mustered up the courage to ask her this very and yet unmistakable desperate question. As if she had lost a beloved one once too, one she had failed to find.

“I’ll see what I can do. But no guarantees.”

“Thank you. Todah.” I stood up, ready to leave, when a sudden thought crossed my mind. “By the way, Mrs Harris, you say I am legally to be the caretaker, if I’m not mistaken. But what about that guy?”

“That… guy?”

“The current caretaker,” I began, adding as I recalled our brief conversation in front of the dilapidated hut. “Strange man. Not much of a talker, either.”

“There’s no such thing, Mr Sami.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mrs Harris went through several files on her desk, adjusting her glasses while doing so, before glancing up again. The hardened lines on her face told me she was utterly confused and concerned.

“Are you saying someone is living at the property right now?”

“You didn’t know?” I asked, equally perplexed.

“No. Our records show that Amal Khalil was the last known heir. Legally. No one should be there as far as the documents tell me. Do you have a name?”

I nibbled on my lips. Why hadn’t I asked his name?

“No. But he said he and his family worked as caretakers of the property way before the siege took place. Maybe you can trace his identity?”

“That’s strange. There must’ve been some mistake somewhere down the road. But you know what? I’ll take a look into the matter and see if his claim is true, and then we’ll take it from there.”

“Right.”

“Oh, and, by the way. Should… anything happen, hit me up. The locals can be—you must’ve noticed it already.”

“…Sure.”

“Well, then,” she said, rising to her feet and extending a hand. “I hope to hear from you as soon as possible.”

When I stepped out after what felt like several hours, the air had become more humid and the midday sun fiercer, draining the colour of everything it bathed in a golden light. I walked without direction at first, the chaotic mess of legal words on a never-ending loop in my mind, overwhelming my thoughts and weighing me down. Suddenly growing weak, I sat on a bench in a busy square. A café across from me had placed a few plastic chairs onto the pavement, so I spent a few minutes watching the waiters drift between tables.

Six months.

The number sounded small, survivable even. But…

I couldn’t shake off the events of yesterday, of the caretaker’s bizarre antics, of the things I thought I saw and heard in that bathroom – inside the bus.

What was the matter with me? I could no longer tell right from wrong. It was as if the lines between the fantasy and reality had become one, blurred together, and I was trapped in the mess with no exit.

At the same time, something told me that I had come here for a reason. Perhaps I was only trying to fool myself by having such thoughts, who knew? To convince myself to stay those six months despite my better judgment. Even so, despite everything, I had already made up my mind. I wanted to stay. Not for my own sake, not even for my aunt’s, but for my family.

The property was my second chance, a means for me to get back my wife and daughter, to become a family again, like we used to. And I clung to that hope like my life depended on it. Had I not… then all I had left was this misery of life. But if this was how I was going to live for the rest of my life, then I’d rather die than live another day.

And I… wanted to live.

Continue.