Two Chambered Heart: A Novella

By Gail Springer

Six thousand miles and seventeen centuries apart, two women escape war, personal loss and destruction to meet out of time and space.

 

Diane, a contemporary artist and professor in New London, Connecticut prepares for the biggest art opening of her career, while in Mesopotamia 250 CE a girl named Rihan assists her father as he paints characters and stories from the Torah onto the walls of their synagogue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gail Springer
• Release date: May 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223964667

Book preview

New London, Connecticut, 2017 CE

EYELIDS CLAMPED SHUT against the morning, Diane felt for the snooze button on her old clock radio then dropped her head back onto the pillow with a groan. Auburn curls wisped over her forehead and across her cheeks. Stillness then an intake of breath and a grand stretch were followed by much snuggling under the quilt and an oozing in and out of sleep until the newscaster’s voice interrupted her pleasure once more.

"We open today with an in-depth story. Over a year ago NPR reported the capture of the ancient Semitic city of Palmyra by ISIS fighters. At the time, Abu Laith al-Saoudy, the ISIS military commander in Syria, pledged to preserve the city’s historic buildings and destroy only statuary considered idols of infidel worship. Yet for the ten months ISIS held the city, they used dynamite, fire, bulldozers, and pickaxes to target 2,000-year-old Greco-Roman temples, monuments, and statuary. ISIS fighters executed dozens of Assad supporters in the center of the Roman theatre.

"We might ask Commander al-Saoudy to assess the loss of monumental treasures against the loss of the more than 240,000 people who have died so far in the Syrian conflict. Perhaps in the minds of these ISIS fighters, the structures of cultural history and murdered men, women and children are one and the same. Is this why they chose to murder 81-year-old Khaled al-Asaad, director of Palmyran antiquities, in a public beheading, then leave the scholar’s body hanging on a column, a proclamation to all that the promise of the Caliphate had come to pass?

When the Russian-backed Syrian offensive finally pushed ISIS out of the city in March of 2016, Syrians rejoiced to find the ancient Roman theater still standing. And the miracle held... for a while. Spread thin in their efforts to retake Aleppo, Syrian forces gave up Palmyra, and yesterday NPR received a confirming video that the Roman theatre has been destroyed and is now a pile of rubble with only four of the Tetrapylon’s 16 columns still standing. Satellite photos reveal additional destruction and looting at the ancient fortress city of Dura-Europa.

Dragging her head out from under the pillows and swinging her bare legs from between the sheets, Diane sat up on the edge of the bed. Dura-Europa, she whispered turning off the radio. She grabbed her robe from the floor, speed dialed Rob’s number, and ran down the stairs. The moment he answered she began her rant. Destroy the past, control the future.

Good morning to you too, but what exactly are you talking about, asked Rob.

ISIS, ISIL, The Taliban, Al Qaeda, all of them. They kill soldiers then murder civilians and destroy antiquities... 

Ah, I see now. Thank God it’s not our problem. Shall I come over?

Did you actually just say it was not our problem? No, I don’t want you to come over, and what are you, an island? ‘Nothing can touch me, I’m safe, I’m...’

No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I’m not an island. I’m not saying that.

What are you saying then? Where’s your compassion?

I have compassion. It’s just that I’m more concerned with things I can control. I’d be a blob of misery if I let the stuff I can’t control get to me.

Well, I am a blob of misery. I can’t ignore it. What should I do, bask in my insulated bubble of peace and tranquility?

In a way. I mean, ISIS is empire building — the Caliphate and all that. There’s a litany of woes on the news every day, so I listen, because I believe I should know what’s going on. And I certainly feel compassion for the people involved, but... I don’t dwell on it. I let it go and get on with my life. It’s a choice. We can feel guilty for our own good fortune or we can feel grateful. I’d surely rather feel grateful.

Grateful for what? That we’re white and educated and therefore privileged?

Uh oh. What do you want me to say? We’re damned lucky. And our parents sacrificed a lot for us. Silence. Diane. Silence. Okay, we’re privileged, I see that. I wish everyone was this privileged.

Oh God.

Oh God what? What’s wrong with that? Silence. Never mind. It’s the destruction of art, sculpture and architecture, and the murder of that university scholar that’s really bothering you, isn’t it?

Yes.

So okay, I agree. It’s awful, period. And... I’m also thinking about you, about what can help you keep yourself together emotionally. You know I love you...

I know, Diane said, sipping her tea.

It does help to be realistic, to take a bigger perspective. You and I are little fish in a small pond in the middle of a giant ocean of war and genocide. We just have to keep swimming.

"Ugh, that’s an awful metaphor, but I’ll go on with it. The ocean is rising and will flood our pond too! And you know what? We’re not ‘just little fish’. We’re not bystanders just because we’re not Syrians or Afghanis. We can’t turn our backs on these events. We know things, we see and hear about it. And as Americans we are actually big fish in this ocean."

True, I just mean you and me, in the scheme of things. Silence. What should we do, honey? Pack our bags and fly over there to rescue artifacts? Put our little-fish bodies between giant statues and tanks? Would that help?

I don’t know. Maybe. All I know is that I’m grieving over the loss of these antiquities, these people. I don’t feel separate from others like you do. What happens to them happens to me.

I agree that we’re all one in that sense. But babe, it’s an illusion to think you can do something that will make a difference.

What’s the point of compassion if we can’t make a difference? If we don’t help?

I don’t know. I guess it keeps us human. It’s a spiritual thing. I hope it affects the balance somehow. We send checks to Doctors Without Borders, we vote, but otherwise we’re powerless to stop a warring force like ISIS. Destroying those artifacts makes a huge political statement. They want to raze an entire culture so they can build a new one and have ultimate power. They don’t want irrelevant artistic symbols. ISIS is doing what those Egyptian pharaohs did when they erased Akhenaten’s face and name from his monuments. They took apart temples block by block. We saw those chiseled hieroglyphics in Luxor. Revisionist history, that’s what that is...

Okay stop, enough. You’re lecturing me now with your ‘this is the way it is’ persona, and I hate that. You just want to control my emotions as usual.

Oookay. Silence. You know, that’s not fair. You brought me into this, and now you’re turning me into the bad guy. I’m just trying to help.

But here’s the thing. I’ve got nothing like your ancestors to warm me up to this kind of behavior. My people are like shadows. Except for Juliana I have no family, so I embrace art and artists. Artists don’t kill and destroy. We create. Your people came here, destroyed what they found and rebuilt everything the way they wanted it to be. And now you’re benefiting from it.

Wait, that’s not true. Not at all true. My ancestors were simple pioneers struggling to survive, refugees who went looking for a new life and freedom to worship.

But they took everything from the new land and native people. They destroyed native art, livelihoods, children.

There’s no evidence any of my family did that. They were farmers, ministers, teachers, Methodists. Silence. I would say they took advantage of the Europeans’ North American conquest, yes. And that they were like us, trying to make a life for themselves.

I suppose none of us knows for sure what our ancestors did or didn’t do, but this particular destruction of art and artists has wounded me. It feels completely personal, like my family is being destroyed.

This sounds like old wounds, Diane, the same wounds that make you compassionate and sensitive and an amazing artist. I admire your idealism. I always have. I’m only suggesting that in this moment you be a bit more realistic.

I know.

Listen, ISIS is like Genghis Khan. When he conquered a region, he and his family personally raped all the women they could. Why? To take over the world, to pass on their DNA. His Y chromosome is in like 5% of the Asian population.

Where did you read that bullshit? Okay, I’m backing off now. This is a terrible way to start a day.

Rob laughed. Something we can agree on! I just want to help you feel better, honey. You know that. Human nature is what it is.

It doesn’t make me feel better to know our species is murderous, that I should expect and accept the worst in us. And don’t you agree we should work toward the best in people?

Of course. Silence. Was NPR how you woke up this morning?

Uh huh.

Maybe you could wake up to WCNI tomorrow. Nice, soothing classical music. Your artist family creating beauty.

Yeah, maybe.

How about we meet for our run? I can be at the corner in ten, and afterwards we can shower together, have a nice breakfast. No talk, I promise.

I can’t. I have a meeting in an hour, then another. That’s why I set my alarm. Diane sniffed and was quiet.

Aw honey... I’m sorry. What can I do?

Nothing. It’s fine.

I can’t fix this.

I just need you to understand. These ancient sites — it’s a miracle that we’ve even found them. Each painting, sculpture, building, is like a spark of humanity’s best. They give me hope. Maybe just share that hope with me. Or just listen next time and don’t try to fix it.

Got it. You’re right.

Silence. So how can you say this isn’t your problem? The phone went dead before Rob could respond.

Outside the walled city of Dura-Europa, Mesopotamia, 250 CE

RIHAN