By: Philip Graubart

The Hamas delegate stepped to the podium. He wore a checkered Palestinian keffiyeh, tight black jeans, a Grateful Dead t-shirt and shiny white New Balance sneakers. He grinned, loving the attention. His fake Arab pronunciation was not bad, probably because the kid’s real parents were Israeli professors. He nodded, acknowledging the boos from the spectators, then, still smiling, he took out his phone and read his prepared remarks. “Like the Zionist baby killers here with us today, I am pleased to address this noble conference. But only so I can give you this message from the endlessly oppressed Palestinian people. We are sorry we killed over one thousand Zionists on that blessed day, October 7. Yes, sorry. We apologize. Why sorrow for the deaths of the aggressors? We are sorry that we didn’t kill more of you. We wanted to murder tens of thousands of enemy occupiers. And my promise to you from the resistance is we will kill more. More and more. We will rape and maim and slaughter all of you. . . “

It was too much. Dr. Dov Henkin, the head of school, stood abruptly, toppling his plastic chair.  The kid – Josh Goldberger, a skinny, curly haired high school senior at the Weinstock Jewish Academy in Laguna Beach – stopped speaking. Dr. Henkin glanced quickly at Avi the Israel studies teacher. Then he looked again at Josh. Then his eyes settled definitively on Rabbi Judith Adler, the new director of Jewish life and learning. He frowned, seemed about to speak but changed his mind. Then he walked quickly out of the classroom. “All of you Zionist baby killers,” Josh yelled as his principal fled the room. “Itbakh al yahud!” he hollered. Then he laughed, like a mad man.

Judith didn’t hire Avi because he was an ex-boyfriend and they were both now single. No one could credibly accuse her of that. Their brief (just one year) affair happened so long ago. And they hadn’t stayed in touch. Never really thought about each other, not really. And except for the two of them, no one in her immediate circle at the Academy even knew they’d once been a couple. Lovers.  Almost engaged. Actually, you could argue, engaged.

He was qualified for the position. Advanced education degree from Hebrew University in Jerusalem – which meant nothing to the parents who were demanding the hire, but certainly impressed Dov, Judith’s boss, the head of school. More importantly, for the members of the Israel curriculum committee, he’d fought in Gaza, Lebanon, and the West Bank. As a commander. True the words “fought” and “commander” were a little misleading; he’d served in an education unit, framing the history and ideology behind Israel’s moves for young infantry soldiers. Still, IDF commander was a dazzling qualification. For at least half the committee, they didn’t have to read his resume any further.

Most importantly, for all the essential and annoying stakeholders – the liberal millennials, the right-leaning gen x upper school parents, the grandparent donors, the Hebrew language faculty (all Israeli), the confused but interested non-Jewish teachers, the four local rabbis – he wrote and lectured with a high degree of nuance. Avi was a committed, pro-Israel Zionist, but one with compassion for Palestinians, and a visceral distaste for the occupation. He expressed his politics using both ethical and strategic language. “Put aside for the moment our moral obligations,” he wrote in a widely shared New York Times op-ed. “We’re screwing ourselves by not actively creating a Palestinian state. It’s manifestly not in Israel’s interest to rule over three million more non-Jews in the Jewish state.” Many liberal Zionist American Jews, and most of Judith’s concerned parents at the Weinstock Jewish Academy, adored the phrase “we’re screwing ourselves.” In their long-distance relationship with the conflict, it allowed them to be moral, anti-apartheid, fashionably anti-Bibi Netanyahu, but steely minded, sophisticated, nuanced.

Nuance was what they wanted, two years after October 7. Our kids have to understand both sides, Annete Waldman – former congregant and now chair of the Judaica curriculum committee – told Judith approximately one hundred times. We need our children to feel the horrors of that day, October 7. In their kishkes, she’d say, and point to her stomach, as if the problem were a belly ache.  But, she’d quickly add, we can’t let them graduate without understanding the Palestinian narrative.

Narrative. Judith hated the word, not really knowing why. That’s what everyone wants. Narrative. And nuance, nuance, nuance – another word she was beginning to despise. That’s what we need, her parents implored her. Except when we don’t, Judith told herself. But okay. Narrative. Nuance. She hired her old boyfriend.

His job was to run the Israel-Palestine simulation game – a game theory exercise Judith had loved as a sophomore Judaica Studies major at Tufts. The idea was to divide the class into several teams: Israelis – both the government and the opposition; Palestinians – both Hamas and Fatah; Americans, the EU, the media, the gulf states, Jordan, Egypt, and more and more if you have enough kids. You spend a semester making them study the various histories, motivations, narratives (naturally), and even personalities in each group. You gather everyone together for a three-day pseudo-peace conference at a fake Camp David. You emphasize that the point isn’t to make peace, but to stay in character – to behave precisely as you imagined your real-life double would behave. The end result? Probably not peace, but for the students – nuance. Empathy. Some strategic thinking. And less complaining, Judith explained to Dov, about missing out on crucial narratives. “The narratives will all burst out,” she assured him. “It’s three long days.” “Narratives,” he replied, looking her in the eye with wide-eyed sincerity, as if sharing a moment of prayer. “And nuance,” Judith added.

Judith first met Avi the night she’d arrived in Jerusalem for her junior year abroad. Excited and nervous about the coming year, she hadn’t slept at all on the flight, hadn’t really slept for thirty some hours. On the bus ride from the airport to the campus, it seemed to Judith that everyone knew each other except for her, that she’d stumbled into some kind of reunion of former Jewish campers, day school grads, youth group leaders – all experiences that Judith had missed, despite her rabbi father. She hummed along quietly as the students burst out in song – Jerusalem hymns, Israeli pop hits, even a few Beatles tunes. She clapped her hands lightly and stared out the window, retreating into her own shyness, a life-long affliction. Once on campus, desperately lonely despite being surrounded by 500 gregarious American Jews her own age (and roughly the same upbringing and financial status), she followed the crowd to the housing line. Students were already dividing up into roommates – easy enough, Judith thought; they all know each other. She wondered whether they’d give her a single. Or if she could fly home the next day.

That’s when Avi touched her wrist. She looked up, startled that anyone would pay attention to her. “No roommate, huh?” he asked. American, she quickly thought. No accent. Tall. Good looking – short wavy jet-black hair, skinny, but with thick arms, chiseled features, white teeth, dazzling smile. And, exotic beyond all measure, a military uniform, olive drab, top two buttons unbuttoned, heavy brown boots. And a rifle, leaning against his leg. “Sorry,” he said, following her eyes to his gun, “I’m just back from miluim – army reserves. I haven’t had a chance to change. I’m volunteering tonight for all you Americans.” He looked around sneakily, as if about to be caught. “Come on,” he said quietly, bringing his face close to her ear. “Let’s get you a great room. And a roommate.”

That turned out to be his first cousin, black-haired, kind, warm Penina, who quickly became Judith’s closest friend. So that night she acquired the snazziest room on campus – a suite with a kitchen, two bedrooms and, rare and heavily coveted, a phone. And a best friend. And, it didn’t take long, a boyfriend. Avi, half American, high school in Boston, therefore fluent in both Hebrew and English. Exotic and familiar – the perfect combination. And, through Avi and Penina, Judith acquired an Israeli family, so she could easily escape from the American junior year ghetto on Mount Scopus, and interact with “real” Israelis, speak Hebrew, meet Avi’s army buddies, pine for her soldier boyfriend when he was called for reserve duty, huddle together with her adopted family in their private bomb shelter when the missiles flew and the sirens rang. Which they did seven times that year. Judith counted.

Over the years, back in America, when Judith would run into one of the 500 Jews who spent their 1992 Junior Year at Mt. Scopus – it happened not infrequently; Jewish leadership being a small world – she’d wince when she realized the person didn’t recognize her, didn’t know her, didn’t recall her face or name. From that first night when Avi had swooped in and bequeathed to her housing, a roommate, and a lover, she’d gained an authentic Israeli experience, but lost out on an American abroad student experience. Ultimately, that’s why she broke off her engagement to Avi, three days after she’d said yes, the night before her return flight to New York. She suffered from a stark realization that she wasn’t ready to forego normal student life for her senior year, wasn’t ready to move to Israel, wasn’t ready to grow up. And Penina had planted the slightest seed of doubt with a raised eyebrow when Judith gave her the happy news. Avi’s neediness, Judith thought. His temper. His jealousy. Judith got all of that from Penina’s one two-second raised eyebrow. A single seed, but it grew and, in Judith’s literary imagining, the metaphor shifted ominously to cancer. It expanded too quickly, crowding out – killing – the affection she genuinely felt for him. Judith wasn’t surprised at Avi’s melt down when she broke the news. Tears weren’t a rarity in their relationship – Avi’s tears, not hers. He cried at synagogue on Yom Kippur (“so many sins,” he whispered to her); he wept whenever he received his call up notice, then wept again for the first half hour whenever he’d return home. “Lebanon,” he told her, and it was explanation enough. She cried a little on the airplane back to America. That was it for her.

They split before the internet age, so they couldn’t keep track of each other, even if they’d wanted to. But after her miscarriage, separation and then divorce, an ailment common to her age afflicted her: old boyfriend syndrome. More specifically former lover on Facebook syndrome. She found him online, ordered two of his books, sampled his nuanced op-eds on Zionism, antisemitism, dueling narratives, terrorism, religious fanaticism, anti-Zionism and Israeli wines. She carefully studied photos of his never smiling red-haired wife Izbetta (what kind of name is that?) She composed a note. But didn’t send it. What was the point? He was married – maybe not happily; his wife apparently never smiled – but still married. And 5000 miles away.

The day after she deleted her note to him, he messaged her. A friend of a friend of a friend had moved to Laguna Beach, he wrote, and joined Judith’s synagogue. He was so proud and pleased that she’d become a rabbi. He’d wept when he heard her name, then cried again when he saw her photo on Facebook.

They exchanged emails or texts every few months, Judith’s light and friendly, Avi’s deep, emotional, wildly curious, endlessly revealing. His failing marriage. Disillusionment with the Israeli army. Disappointment at the direction of Israeli culture. Sexual frustration. Anger. Sorrow. Loneliness. Euphoria. Too much. Eventually Judith dreaded looking at her phone. She’d just finished composing a firm, polite note explaining why they should no longer stay in touch when she received an email announcing his move to Southern California. Did she have any advice about jobs? He was especially interested in, and qualified for a position in Jewish education – specifically Israel education. Judith stared at her screen. “Shit,” she mumbled.

Two weeks later they got together for lunch at Morty’s, Laguna’s latest stab at a kosher restaurant. Avi seemed to hold back tears after their hug. He cleared his throat and searched his pockets for tissues. Judith marveled at how little he’d changed – not quite skinny, but still thin, wiry, muscled arms, sharply angled cheekbones, white teeth, charming smile, black hair with no trace of bald spots or grey. He summed up the previous twenty-five years in a few short sentences. “Married, didn’t work out. No kids; we tried, but, well, you know. Army education, had enough. Too many wars. I needed a break. You?” He dabbed his eyes with a tissue. Could have been allergies.

Judith considered going through the whole story: religious awakening, rabbinical school, musician ex-husband, scandalous father, beautiful daughter, miscarriage, divorce, trouble at the congregation, new job. But could she sum up these complex and tumultuous ideas as skillfully as Avi? Should she? How much did she want him to know? So she stuck to her current role. Like it was a job interview, not a reunion with a lover who had changed her life. She told him her plan for Israel education at the school. The centrepiece would be the game. 

“Wait,” he interrupted. “You’re planning a simulation game?”

She sipped her Arnold Palmer and nodded.

His eyes lit up and he fished around in his briefcase. He removed a thin journal, flipped through it, found the right page and handed it to her. It was in Hebrew. She took a breath, then put on her reading glasses. “Never mind,” he said. “You can struggle through it later. It’s my essay on simulation games, both in America and Israel. I’ve led dozens. At Northwestern. Penn. Swarthmore. And Hebrew University and Bir Zeit. For a while this was my academic specialty. Judith! What an astounding coincidence.”

Of course she hired him on the spot. Then offered to show him around Laguna. He looked close to tears.

They only had enough kids for five teams: Israel, Palestine, the United States, the Gulf States, and the media. At Avi’s insistence, they placed the most enthusiastically pro-Israel kids in the Hamas sub-group, and the farthest left pro-Palestinian students on the Israel team. Narratives, Avi explained. This is how they start absorbing dual narratives. And nuance, Judith said to herself, as if finishing the lyric to a song that nauseated her.  Avi assigned a teacher/adviser to each group. Judith took Israel, Avi took Palestine, Mr. Bleich, a non-Jewish AP American History teacher took the United States, Mr. Ohwani a Moroccan math teacher took the Gulf States, and Mr. Zach – web specialist and easily the most popular teacher in the school (and highest paid) – supervised the fake media.

After eight weeks of study, they were ready to begin preparations for the three-day conference. Judith listened carefully to the Israel group’s draft opening statement. “Shalom” Marci Epstein said, in a clear confident voice. Marci’s mother was a Pakistani engineer, and Marci led the liberal JStreet group at the Academy. “Peace. The Jewish people’s primary value. For 100 years we’ve pursued peace with our neighbors. We’ve made sacrifices. We’ve lost precious soldiers and civilians. We’ve offered nearly everything. Land. Security. Water rights. Our sacred Jerusalem. And we will offer these and more and more and more.”

“Marci,” Judith interrupted. “Are you sure Israel offered Jerusalem in previous negotiations? Also, ‘and more and more?’ Are you saying Israel would give up its capital city – and even more?”

Marci nodded vigorously, sticking to her guns. She was a bright, hardworking kid, headed for Pomona in the fall. “It’s sort of propaganda, isn’t it? For the media? The United States? The EU?”

“Ah,” Judith said. “A strategy. Please continue.” She tried to listen more carefully now, as the Israeli spokesperson seemed to offer large chunks of the Negev for a Palestinian state. But she might have misheard because she was distracted by thoughts of her upcoming dinner with Avi.

It was their first real date since the break-up, twenty-five years before. They’d already shared bare bones history, jobs, marriage, divorce, achievements, kids, parents, nieces and nephews, where they’d been, what they’d done. Judith was pleased and astonished how they fell into familiar conversation patterns, as if their romantic connection hadn’t been torn asunder, but buried underground waiting for the right time to emerge. Judith felt comfortable enough to ask why he’d resigned from the regular army while there was still fighting in Gaza and Lebanon. And why leave the country?

“No one serves forever,” he said quietly, staring at his wine glass. He’d taken one mini sip. Maybe two. “Twenty years, full time. I think it’s enough.”

“Yes, but why Southern California? Surely there were education jobs for you in Israel?”

Judith spotted a tiny tear, too small even to travel down Avi’s cheek before drying up. For a tense moment she was afraid he would claim he’d moved to Orange County because of her. But he shook his head and took a long swallow of the Chardonay. “PTSD. You know about it?”

Judith’s face reddened. “Of course. I’m so sorry. . .”

“For nothing. For nothing you should be sorry.” Judith noticed that, like twenty-five years before, Avi fell into Israeli modes of speaking English under stress, putting a dependent clause first in a sentence, or clicking his tongue to indicate no, or cupping his hand to ask for a moment. He cupped his hand, took a breath, and gathered himself.   “It’s just, I’m not in the place to tell you all my adventures just yet.” He smiled and scratched his cheek, as if digging for the tear that had dried up and vanished. “I think tonight we’ll stick to your stories. Rabbi Judith. A rabbi. I was so proud.”

She offered the highlights and low lights of her marriage. The joys and sorrows of being a single mom, raising an only child, one who – God help her – was suddenly talking about (threatening?) rabbinical school. The tricky, nearly impossible task of dating as a middle-aged woman rabbi.

Avi nodded, half smiling. He seemed enchanted at her sad, possibly interesting, but decidedly not traumatic stories. “Something you’re leaving out, no? Your synagogue? Changing jobs?”

A flash of scalding anger shot through Judith’s system – but quickly, at the speed of light. A fiery blush, heat from her cheeks, but then gone. By the time Avi tilted his head and then blinked, she’d extinguished all remnants of surface fury. She took a sip of cool water. “Just needed a change,” she said. “Nothing dramatic.”

The second day of the Weinstock Academy peace conference went smoother than the previous night’s blow-up. No one threatened genocide. No one burst into tears. Dr. Dov managed to observe for over an hour without storming out. Judith stopped worrying that Avi would get himself fired.

She noticed that even in their separate groups, working on proposals or responses, the students mostly stayed in character. The entire Palestinian delegation wore Fatah and Hamas Keffiyehs. The Hamas kids covered their faces.  The American team dressed formally, with jackets and ties. The Israelis wore sandals; some even managed to acquire olive-green IDF uniforms. Everyone affected some sort of accent; even the media team, for some reason, decided they were all British.

“It’s like cosplay,” Judith whispered to Avi as they watched a fake podcast star interview a fake defense minister. During an afternoon break, Judith spotted a girl from the Hamas team and a boy from the right-wing settler Israeli team huddling together in an empty classroom. Judith was about to break in and separate them – they weren’t supposed to go off character even during breaks, and besides, as cute as they looked, this wasn’t the time to flirt. But Avi took her arm and stopped her. “They’re in character,” he said. “Look, they’re negotiating. It’s a secret channel.”

Judith watched, fascinated. The Hamas girl shook her finger at her Israeli counterpart. He barked out a response. She shook her head, trembling with anger. “They’re so into it,” Judith said. “I wonder if it’s even. . . is it healthy?”

“It’s empathy,” Avi said.

The teams negotiated through a simulation game app Avi invented and then loaded onto everyone’s phone and laptop. By dinnertime of the second day, the Israel and Palestine teams had actually inched forward on something that could conceivably become a peace proposal. Not surprising, Avi told Judith. “These are American kids. Upper middle class. White. There’s a bias towards getting along. That’s where I step in. Time to shake things up a bit.” He took out his phone, punched in a long text, then showed the screen to Judith. An infiltration into Ashkelon. Twenty civilians killed, including nine children and a Holocaust survivor.  Israel retaliates, destroys a residential tower in Gaza city. Hundreds are killed, over one thousand left homeless. Avi smiled.

On their third date, Avi told Judith his story. They were eating fish tacos at an outdoor Mexican shack, watching the sun set over Laguna Bay. The yellows and blues were at a perfect blend, coloring the sand with golden turquoise rays. Children bellyflopped into the surf, cackling with glee. Chiming guitar chords rang from the boardwalk. The air smelled like salt water and frying fish. “One of the nicest spots in California,” Judith said, thinking this was one of her happiest moments since the divorce. She scrunched closer to Avi, who put his arm around her shoulders.

“Reminds me of Gaza,” he said.

She moved an inch away and studied his profile. “Gaza. Really?”

“Do you want to hear the story? I mean the real story?”

When they were lovers – fiancés – Judith could swear he had no Israeli accent at all when he spoke with her. But now, he sounded more like one of the school’s Hebrew teachers. Fluent in English, but clearly accented. “Of course,” she said. “If. . . you know, if you’re ready.”

He told the story. He was an education officer, but he served in hostile areas, and if someone shot at him, he’d shoot back. “Manpower was in short supply,” he said softly, as the Laguna sun sunk into its most glorious colors – pink and orange and blood red. “We were fighting on, well, they say seven fronts. Anyway, if they ask you to go, you go.  Not every assignment is a lecture on Palestinian civil society. My orders were to accompany a small combat unit to the beach and check out reports of a breakaway Islamic Jihad gang. I took my pistol. I never really learned to fire the rifle.” He formed his hand into a pistol and aimed it across the street at the sinking sun. They both watched his hand, as if it might actually fire. “Believe it or not, there were swimmers on the beach. Body surfers. You could smell sunscreen and grilled lamb. Gaza was hell, for sure, but it was also, sometime. . .” He shrugged. “Something else. I saw families. Like, you know,” he pointed, his hand, still shaped like a gun, at three children building a sandcastle. “Of course we heard gunfire and missile fire – sounds of war. It was a war. But nothing too close up. But then.” He dug into his pocket and wiped his nose with his handkerchief. “Avi,” Judith said. “You don’t have to. . .”

“No, it’s good. Good to talk. And you know. I cry a lot. The problem was when I stopped crying.” It was dark and cool, just past twilight. Avi continued. “The gunfire got louder. It’s a pretty simple story, Judith. You can probably tell the rest.”

“You shot someone,” Judith said. She wasn’t sure how she knew. He could just as easily have been shot.

He looked at her, waited. His eyes overflowed.

“Someone young. A child terrorist?”

He nodded.

“Avi.”

“Not a terrorist. Not really. There was just one gun in the group. And that kid wasn’t the one shooting. But I heard the shots. We saw the gun.” Tears streamed down his face. He choked as he spoke, stuttering. “There was an investigation. A d-d-dead child. Doesn’t matter.”

Judith surprised herself by embracing him, taking his weeping face to her shoulder. “Shh,” she said.

He lifted his head slightly, still gripping Judith’s back. “So, when they say baby killer,” he said.

“Shh,” Judith said. She took his damp handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Shh.”

Emotions boiled over on the game’s third day. A hijab-clad Hamas delegate, covered head to toe in black, but really Ilana Ravitsky, a Berkeley bound Mexican Jew – spit at the Israeli team as they sat for lunch and screamed “Genocide! Genocide!” The Israeli team flashed posters of Israeli hostages who’d been executed in the Gaza tunnels, and chanted Am Yisrael Chai. A far right settler – but actually Cindy Joseph, cheerleader captain, and an apolitical product of a mixed marriage – tearfully explained to the American mediators that no army in the world could dislodge her from the biblical Judean hillside home she’d built with her husband and eight children. She used the conflict feature on the simulation app to announce a Jewish settler rampage through a neighboring Palestinian village. “No peace,” she yelled, “until you understand that it all belongs to us!”

Yet the secret channel still functioned and appeared to be making progress. To Judith’s shock, the Americans announced that direct negotiations between Israel and the Palestinians would commence after dinner.

“They’re overusing the secret channel,” Avi whispered to Judith. “Sure, such things exist. But not to this extent. We’ll have to. . .”

“Please,” Judith said. “Just let them play it out. For a little while. Please?”

Avi stared out the window.

They convened in the school boardroom – plush chairs around a sturdy, shiny wooden table. The direct negotiations began with a fusillade of insults. “Baby killer!” “Terrorist!” Genocidal murderer!” “Crazy fanatic!” “Motherfucker!” Judith suppressed a smile at the last one.

But after venting their mutual hatreds, each team took out a map. Then the American president – a chubby student wearing a Halloween Donald Trump mask – unfurled his own detailed peace proposal and map and barked out orders. The difference between the sides began to shrink. Proposal followed proposal. Trump screamed out the world “Compromise!” With two hours left in the simulation, they made progress.

“We have to stop this,” Avi told Judith. “No, wait,” Judith said. But it was too late. Avi marched to the head of the table. “Stop! Stop!” he yelled, holding up his right arm. “OOC! OOC!” Three letters, short for “Out of character.” The codeword, like a safeword, that pierced the simulation and returned everyone to Laguna Beach.

On their fourth date Judith brought Avi to the Wild Animal Park near San Diego. As the tourist-filled tram shuttled them through the fake African savannah, Avi alternated between snapping photos with his phone and wiping his nose. “Allergies,” he explained, then sneezed “And, you know. . .” He pointed to the zebras and the lone hippopotamus.

But she didn’t know. That zebras made him cry? The hippo reminded him of Hamas? She didn’t know him at all. Twenty-five years ago she knew him well enough to consider tying her life to his. But this Avi seemed like a different person altogether. She took his hand, affectionately, but also to stop him from taking so many pictures.

They wandered the park for nearly three hours. Avi photographed every snake, every tiger, every giraffe. When they reached the chimpanzees, they collapsed on the benches and watched the monkeys swing, wrestle, dance and play. Avi first looked on with rapt attention, as if pondering some deep truth. Then he turned to Judith. “Your story?” he said. “Your trauma? Something to do with your synagogue? How you ended up teaching spoiled American children? Come now. It’s your turn to talk. Your turn for stories.”

Judith astonished herself by tearing up. Unlike Avi, Judith was not a crier. She went through a miscarriage, a divorce, the murder of a close friend, deadly insults from her daughter, without shedding a tear. But somehow this one career move from synagogueto school – not, in the greater context of the Jewish professional world, such a momentous move – provoked weeping. She took a breath. “It was just,” she said, still watching the chimps frolic. “They accused me of bashing Israel. Not loving Israel enough. They called me a self-hating Jew. And. And they brought up my father’s scandal.” She shook her head vigorously, as if she could shake away the tears. Avi lightly touched her damp cheek. “Just say it slowly,” he said. “Let it out.”

First it was the sermon the lingered on the image of Palestinian children drinking from the toilet in the months after October 7. Not to minimize Israeli suffering or to justify Hamas in anyway, just a call for simple humanity. She included similar sentiments in other sermons and classes several times before she learned of the petition to fire her despite her recent five-year contract. Then, without her knowledge, the synagogue’s adult learning committee invited Dov Lazarus to speak at their annual “Great Jewish Voices” lecture. Lazarus, a UCLA professor, had recently published a book-length argument for Jewish non-Zionism. Judith’s board president insisted she cancel the program. Judith refused but suggested bringing in a “hyper-Zionist” to balance Lazarus. The president objected to the phrase “hyper-Zionist.” Out of nowhere, she compared Judith to her scandal plagued father. Judith lost her temper, threatened to slap the president. The next day Judith was summoned to an emergency meeting of the executive committee. They put her on probation – to “test her love for Israel.” Judith quit.

“To imply I don’t love Israel,” she said, now in control of herself, telling the story as if it happened to someone else. “And to bring in my father.” She turned from the monkeys and looked at Avi. “Not much of a trauma, huh? Compared to you? I’m embarrassed.”

He shrugged. “Trauma is trauma,” he said. “This was your career. Your life’s work.”

He understands, Judith thought. She believed he did.

“The Israel Palestine conflict will not be solved in a fancy board room in Laguna Beach,” Avi announced to the players after he’d halted the simulation game on the verge of a peace agreement. Students mumbled. Grumbled. Some yelled. Most eyes were ringed red from sleepless nights, anger, and genuine feelings of loss, of something beautiful torn from their lives, gone forever.  We should have let them finish, Judith thought. Even though peace between Israel and Palestine was nothing but a fantasy, let them have this one enchantment before going out in the world. Did Avi really believe that crushing their spirits was a valid educational goal? She looked around the room, but he’d already left. She’d debrief with him the following day after school

But she didn’t get the chance. The graffiti was already dry that morning when she parked her car and walked, then trotted, to the administrative wing. The phrases “Death to the IDF,” “Globalize the Intifada,” and “From the River to the Sea” were scrawled in blood-red paint across the school’s gray brick entrance, just below the words “Weinstock Jewish Academy.” The enormity of the transgression hadn’t fully sunk in, when Judith smelled smoke. Something was on fire. Then she heard what she assumed were gun shots. Three quick ones. Then another. A fiendish laugh. And then another. The school alarm shrieked. Judith ran for cover.

It didn’t take long to realize it was a prank. Senioritis gone wild. The gunshots were a series of firecrackers and cherry bombs – harmless, except for their noise. The smoke came from an easily extinguished campfire on the football field. Most of the screams were fake, though some students and faculty had in fact panicked at the smoke and graffiti. Dr. Henkin decided early in the day to send the kids home out of an abundance of caution. But by mid-afternoon it was clear that the simulation game had rattled the kids, provoked them. Drove them wild.

Judith met with Dr. Henkin first thing the next morning. As always, the smallness of his office surprised her. He’d birthed the school, raised millions of dollars, added a full high school program, with competitive sports and high level STEM classes. But, like the modest man everyone respected, he sat in a tiny corner of the twelve-acre campus, no private bathroom, no personal copy machine, no couch, no ego, no frills. He motioned Judith to sit at one of the classroom  plastic chairs across from his small desk. He told her they’d identified the ringleaders. Josh Goldberger. Mindi Sloan. Aaron Dukheim. Izzy Kaplan. Terri Goldblat. The Hamas team.

“So you’ll expel them?”

“Expel them? With two weeks of school left before they graduate? Besides. These kids. These families.”

Judith understood, even as her heart sank. The Sloans, Dukheims, Kaplans and Goldblats were wealthy families, the beating heart of the annual campaign, and indispensable to the upcoming plan to install an Olympic size pool and build twelve tennis courts. She nodded. “What about Avi? You want me to fire him? It was his fault. He couldn’t. . .”

“Judith,” Dr. Henkin interrupted. “We can’t fire Avi.”

She nodded. The kids and the parents loved him. Plus, he brought with him an undeniably brilliant, complex, nuanced Israel curriculum. The school needed him. Judith watched Henkin water the one plant on his desk, a leafy green Peace Lilly. She spotted a mini tremor in his hand. “So, that’s it? No one takes responsibility?” she said. “No one gets punished?”

He removed his glasses and looked her in the eye. “I didn’t say that.”

She had until 5PM that day to get her stuff out of her office. By the time she walked across campus from Henkin’s tiny space to her corner suite, Avi was already there, taking down Judith’s abstract Chagall posters, replacing them with golden prints of Jerusalem at night. “Did you plan it this way?” Judith asked.

Avi shrugged. “This is not a job for you.”

“You jerk. I’ve spent my life working for the Jewish people.”

“You don’t love Israel. Not the way I do.”

She waited a beat. Later she realized she should have waited longer. Long enough to think better. “You mean because I don’t kill children?”

Avi turned white with shock. Then red with anger. She waited for him to spit something back. Or to slap her. But all he did was cry.