Nava Semel's IsraIsland
imagines in one of its three sections what would have happened had the
historical figure of Major Mordecai Manuel Noah, the most important American
Jew in the first half of the nineteenth century, succeeded in creating his
planned "city of refuge for the Jews"-- Ararat--on Grand Island, today a suburb
of Buffalo. Her ingenious vision of Jewish autonomy on American soil offers an
Israeli perspective on the alternate history genre employed most recently by
Michael Chabon in his best-selling The Yiddish Policemen's Union.
Semel's novel takes as its point of departure the success, rather than the
failure, of Noah's Ararat. In this excerpt, Simon, a paparazzi, is assigned to
dig up dirt on the Jewish female presidential candidate, a descendant of Major
Noah. At the same time, Simon tries to uncover the secret to his lover's
ambivalence about the Jewish island state. To learn more about Nava Semel and
her work, please read the interview which serves as a companion piece to this
excerpt. -- Adam Rovner, Zeek translations editor
"The Future Is Already Here": an excerpt from IsraIsland
By Nava Semel. Translated by Anthony Berris
Everyone says it's an unusual place. The only state in the U.S. I've never visited.
So that's it, partner, I'm taking the first flight to IsraIsland.
Don't change the apartment locks yet. I haven't left a note or a message on the answering machine because I was sure you'd try and dissuade me from going. Not because you see this kind of assignment as despicable, and not even because you could care less if I screw up the presidential candidate's meteoric career, but simply because I'm going to set foot on that there place which for you symbolizes everything you've turned your back on. Don't worry, Jake, I don't intend to be tempted. I'm immune to the spell the island of the Jews casts on its inhabitants. There's absolutely no chance of me wearing a Star of David with elm leaves like the candidate.
I just about manage to type a couple of words when the flight attendant rushes over and asks me to switch off the laptop because it interferes with the navigation equipment.
I'm dying to take a leak but the seatbelt sign is on and the captain is rambling on about altitude and the outside temperature. We have a headwind so we'll be slightly late landing, but there'll be nobody waiting for me down there except for your troubling scraps of memories. How can anybody despise his birthplace so much? Most people sink under waves of nostalgia about what they call "their homeland."
I know I promised you I'd stop raising ghosts and nosing around in your past. As far as you're concerned the IsraIsland chapter is closed. God, how much energy you expend on vanquishing that hackneyed term "homeland". Why don't you treat it with indifference like the rest of us? Something that doesn't really matter. And tell yourself once and for all: Okay, it's the place where I came into the world -- so fucking what?
Take
me. What have I got to do with Africa? Am I beset by yearning for a place I've
never known, despite its being etched on the consciousness of my ancestors ever
since they were kidnapped in chains and sold into slavery in America? I don't
even ask myself what would have happened if Abraham Lincoln had been born
before his time and abolished slavery a century earlier.
Think about it, Jake. A guy gets stuck in a certain position along the axis of time and it's in his power to reverse the entire course of events. But I don't argue with history because what's the point in playing make-believe? Would a different shuffle of the deck of history have saved the suffering of millions? Not necessarily, because one way or another, sorrow will surely come.
The cloud cover breaks and I bring the lens to the plane's dirty window. The captain announces: We'll be landing at Ararat Airport in three minutes.
I can already make out "The Trio" piercing the clouds and I photograph them for you: Mordecai, Manuel and Noah. Each tower a hundred stories high. It's amazing to think that they were built so many years ago, shortly after the Empire State Building, but people haven't jumped to their death from their windows like they did in the Wall Street crash in the last century. Jumping from Niagara Falls was always a more tempting alternative.
From my angle the square Noah hides the cylindrical Manuel, and Mordecai, the triangular tower, commands them both. A gleaming cluster sending out innumerable flashes, which an eye observing from on high might interpret as distress signals.
So what isn't IsraIsland?
An independent sovereign state. A religious enclave. A penal colony. An autonomy. A quarantine zone.
I must have missed something out.
I even found an ancient term on the Internet -- ghetto -- which hasn't been used since the Middle Ages.
But still, what is IsraIsland?
A city of refuge, you said. A biblical term. A pity I didn't listen to your lecture. Now I won't have a choice but to go back to that ancient book I've never bothered opening.
I shot the avenue of elms leading from the airport to downtown Ararat for you, and "The Trio" from a low angle, with the top of the towers swallowed up in the sky. I hope you'll appreciate the picture because I almost sprained my neck taking it. And I took one of the candidate on an electronic billboard, with her proud features alternating with a campaign slogan, the fruit of the crafty brain of some strategic advisor: "Emmanuelle Winona Noah -- The Future is Already Here".
At the car rental desk a torn election flier blew towards me. I quickly read the headers of her résumé. Born on the island. Educated at Matriarchs' Heritage private school, bachelor's degree from the Yale University School of Drama. Joined the State Department and served as an ambassador in Tunisia.
I didn't find her genealogy in the flier. It's probably on the bit that got torn off.
The clerk ceremoniously hands over the keys of the Grand Cherokee, like he's the angel at the gates of the not-lost paradise.
Maybe it's because I'm not enthusing over the wonders of the Grand Cherokee that the clerk whispers, "She, too, landed an hour ago in her private Gulfstream."
I don't know if the IsraIslander is bragging about their famous daughter who's about to conquer the White House, or warning me against her. My question of where's the bathroom is received as an insult.
In the end I took a leak by an elm in the Ararat Airport parking lot.
Now I'm sitting in the Hilton Ararat, on the 58th floor, in a magnificent suite, drinking Jack Daniel's from the minibar and staring at the frames passing by the window. IsraIsland isn't a ghost ship that's gone aground on the reef of your childhood, Jake, but a place with latitude and longitude and a precise map reference, which only in your strange nocturnal fantasies has become distorted into supernatural dimensions.
Even the harshest critics will be forced to admit: IsraIsland is a success story, the embodiment of prosperity and plenty. From here you can also see the chain of smaller artificial islands that were built to cope with the expanding population. Even your grandmother said it was the place most in demand in the entire history of immigration to America, and it wasn't only Jews that sought permission to settle there since it was founded in 1825. Yes, I checked the historical date link. It's the first to popup on the official website.
How fortunate that IsraIsland already existed when the Nazis came to power in the last century, so your grandmother was able to obtain an official "persecuted" certificate and sail to America aboard a rescue ship. Just think what might have happened if the Jews hadn't had a readymade haven. Then the fate of the Jewish people could have been the same as that of the gypsies, the disabled, the mentally ill, and homosexuals.
What might have happened to us if...? A horrifying thought.
I wake up with a start and have no idea where I am. It's like jetlag, even though there's no time difference between your there-place and my here-place, and the transition shouldn't cause any physical reaction.
I'm floating in space, unable to move my arms and legs they're tingling so much, it's as if thousands of droplets are scratching me from inside. No, it's not the island's magical effect but a combination of exhaustion and stress before the pursuit of Emmanuelle Winona Noah, descendant of the founding father, governor of the State of IsraIsland and possibly the future president of the United States. I'll soon hear what she has to say. I've registered for the candidate's press tour of "scenes of my homeland".
This is the only time I'll see her directly, without barriers and intentional distancing, although photographing at close range is always my secondary preference. I doubt if the candidate will reveal herself at a closely supervised media event. Emmanuelle Winona Noah has chosen to begin the press tour at the Memorial Plaza -- the plot of land on which the first settlers set foot following the founding father's appeal, "The Promised Land Is Fulfilled." I photograph the ancient flagstaff on which, at the end of the Civil War, hung the Stars and Stripes, with a tiny Star of David among the stars. I also shoot the wooden jetty where the vessels that brought the pioneers from Tunisia tied up, and which was restored for IsraIsland's centennial celebrations.
The candidate has chosen a convenient position by Ararat's ancient cornerstone, and her hand brushes the glass case protecting the inscription from the ravages of time: Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad. A carefully planned photo opportunity that conveys both resolve and fragility. An elegant, well-preserved woman.
As expected, she looks different on TV and I presume that her radiant personality is simply a sophisticated theatrical trick. Politicians are blessed with a Niagara of charm.
The candidate flashes tailored smiles at the fleet of journalists crowded into the small plaza, although she takes care not to project power madness or euphoria. No, there's no political sensation in her achievement. It's a completely natural move. After all, the Jews are Americans in every respect and IsraIsland is solid proof that there is no contradiction between religious and community uniqueness and being full partners in national politics.
Jesus,
how long can you keep on grinding out those empty clichés?
Who knows how many rehearsals came before that curtain was raised.
The journalists applaud like school kids sucking up to the teacher while undermining her authority, and I draw back and surreptitiously photograph, without the flash.
Just between us, Jake, what is this IsraIsland? A tiny, powerless entity which at the time had every justification for asking the world for protection, and beneath the broad wings of the American eagle created a display of sovereignty. The world was satisfied, the Jews flourished undisturbed, and only you Jake -- you party pooper -- go on wallowing in a mire of complaint.
Now, as my feet finally tread the soil of IsraIsland, I see no point in bringing down the curtain on this harmless little production. Who do you want to hand the keys to, Jake? I don't dismiss nostalgia. I can't even throw away my disposable toothbrushes because they're fixed to an elusive moment in my transition.
I can see you shaking your fist at the TV and wishing the candidate every possible defeat.
But you should give your support to Emmanuelle Winona Noah, Jake, and even join her campaign. Maybe her victory will finally lead to your dream coming true and IsraIsland will lose its uniqueness. Like a piece of dry bark it will be woven into the New World's cultural reed mat and be recorded as a passing episode. So why are you wasting so much energy on crossing the bridge before you get to it? In this or the next life, IsraIsland will cease to exist.
Question:
What about the claims of the original Native Americans? The Jews forced themselves onto Grand Island and the natives seek to prove that the deed, although legal, does not necessarily bestow linkage between a people and a land. And the natives demand to apply "the right of return" to anyone who is an islander from time immemorial. And they're also demanding an official request for forgiveness.
Answer:
This is a quarrelsome petition on behalf of a negligible underground movement. It was summarily denied by every court in the land and I believe that the decision of the International Court of Justice in The Hague...
Your ancestors could have bought any other island. Maybe it's not too late to publish a tender on eBay: Wanted: A Country. Prepared to compromise. Preference given to an empty area, an uninhabited island. At end-of-season prices.
I start up the Grand Cherokee and move off. The Memorial Plaza shimmers in the rearview mirror.
Is someone who thinks that memory should have limits afraid that without fences and obstacles, memory is likely to be washed away?
***
Zeek's Hebrew translations are made possible by a grant from the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses, supported by public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency. Please direct submissions and queries to editors[at]zeek.net
IsraIsland [Iy-srael. Tel Aviv: Yedioth Ahronoth, 2005] by Nava Semel, copyright © Nava Semel; English translation by Anthony Berris, copyright © The Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature.
AUTHOR:
Nava Semel was born in Tel Aviv in 1954. She received the American National Jewish Book Award for her children's book Becoming Gershona (1990), the Mediterranean Women Writers Award (1994), and the Israeli Prime Minister's Prize (1996). In 2005 she was a co-recipient of the Rozenblum Prize for an opera adapted from her novel, And the Rat Laughs [Tzchok Shel Achbarosh. Yedioth Ahronoth, 2001]. She and director Oshra Schwartz are currently completing a documentary based on IsraIsland.
TRANSLATOR:
Anthony Berris was born in the UK and has lived in Israel for over 50 years. He taught translation at an Israeli college and has been a freelance translator for 25 years.