Project Main Details
When a child tries to understand something about his parents' relationship, his vision is distorted, funny and touching. If his father has a lover, how could he not be cheating on his wife? Is it possible that all three, and even Huda's husband knew and agreed to this?
When he grew up he had realized what he had seen. He was furious with his father for his betrayal. The Anger and the hurt had turned into an obsession, as Abram is Jewish and Atef is Arab .
Abram and Atef's complex relationship will fascinate the reader, and all the doubts and questions that arise in Abram's mind, will lead you to gradually uncover this family's secrets .
Family secret, is a book set in Israel of the first years, before it actually became a state. Depicting it's history, through the relationship of the two boys, who become men, as a mirror, to the jewish palastenian relationship.
The Narrator is first a child, who matures into a young man
2013-10-16 09:36:52 GMT 2013-10-31 23:00:00 (GMT +02:00) Israel Yes (click here to learn more about ) Closed 0 0 0 direct invitation(s) have been sent by the voice seeker resulting in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far. Voice123 SmartCast is seeking 35 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
• Audio files must be delivered via FTP/Dropbox/Google Drive/cloud
• Provide voice direction AND
• Add music
“Come right away, my father’s not breathing,” I yell at the top of my lungs to the people in the Magen David Adom ambulance station on Menuha and Nahala Street.
“The burial society is on Ezra Street,” a medic answers me. He has a potato nose and a black mustache. My chest hurts. I ran out of Sharayim as fast as I could. I’m the fastest kid on my block, and there’s only one ambulance in all Rehovot. That’s why they sent me to get help.
“Their number is 222, maybe you should call them?” another medic says to the one with the mustache.
“No, 222 is the fire department.”
I feel like they don’t really want to help.
“My father’s buried!” I tell them between the breaths whistling through my throat. I’m not sure they hear me.
“Kid, if your father isn’t breathing and your father is buried, so what’s the emergency?” one of them says, trying to joke. But Mr. Mustache understands me.
They get into the ambulance and take off, forgetting me. I run after them. The siren is deafening. The ambulance stops near a deep pit. “It’s an avalanche,” I hear a voice yell. I know that my father’s inside. That he’s the one who was shoveling the earth out of that pit. Now the earth has fallen back in. I push my way through the crowd to look. All I see is earth.
Papa and Angel dig cesspools. They dig a deep pit, build round cages, put them deep down in the pit and cover it with concrete. They leave an opening to clean out the pit. The deeper they dig the pit, the smaller they get until they’re like two puppies in their cages down there. They look up and see the earth pouring down from the sky. Angel panics and bends over. Papa stays upright to welcome the earth. It pours in quickly and covers them completely. People start digging. Everyone there is digging. The ambulance siren wails. My breath is all bunched up around my heart, and now I’m digging like crazy too. But they move me away because I’m digging with my hands and my nails and it’s not helping. Slowly they uncover my father’s face. Bits of soil are hanging from the hair in his nostrils and his mustache. He doesn’t open his mouth and he doesn’t move.
The people dig down to his waist and free his hands. He moves one hand and waves it over his head like a flag. His face stays frozen. Now they start to uncover the cages on the sides of the pit and the concrete covering them. They reach the knees of the statue that was once my father and I see Angel’s back. All of a sudden, everyone around me is yelling. They dig faster and faster. They shout “Angel! Angel!” but it doesn’t sound the same as it does when my mother calls me angel. The people pound the earth and smack their heads. Angel is completely broken, his body folded in two. The people say that the breath of life has gone out of him. Even though we can see my father’s body, we can’t see whether he still has his breath of life. But when the diggers reach his ankles, he bends his left knee to shake off his loose khaki pants and heavy shoes with the earth-colored laces. Then everyone pulls and his right leg is freed too. I try to catch a glimpse of him through the crowd, convinced that he’s not alive even when they carry him to the mouth of the ambulance. He refuses to go in. He shakes them off the sleeves of his shirt the way he shook off the bits of earth. He says, “I can’t help Angel, so I’m taking Avram home.” Avram is me, his son. Even though he gives me his hand and walks with me, I can’t believe he’s alive.
At night, my own crying wakes me up. I yell, “Papa! Papa!” I want him to show me his breath of life. He went to bed early after his rescue. Later, in the dark, he’s a concrete statue.
My bed has iron springs. Its frame is iron too. All our beds are made of iron. These are beds to last your whole life, that’s what Amrani tells us. My mattress is filled with straw. My body sinks into the middle of it and it turns into a nest. I’m a small, yellow chick, that’s what Mama always tells me. My voice is like a bird’s too. The kids in the neighborhood call me Chirpy. They laugh at me because of my voice. If I chirp at night, I pull the blanket all the way up to my nose to hide the chirps so they won’t escape to the outside. I hide from Arabs who go into houses and slaughter whole families. Tonight I can’t fall asleep because if they come, Papa won’t get up. He’s lying there like Angel, except that Angel is lying under the ground and my father is lying on top of it.
“Papa, Papa, I want Papa.”
“Ssh… ssh… shrei nisht.”
That’s my mother’s voice. We all sleep in the same room – Mama, Papa and me. Mama’s sick. She’s been sick for years. She’s been sick for as long as I know her. The doctor says her heart is fluttering inside her. Maybe her heart wants to come out.
My mother’s heart is like a caged bird.
We all squeak on the springs of our iron beds when we turn from side to side in our sleep. Now they’re still. Silent. I turn much more than they do. I turn like a top on a string. My white sheet is pulled out from under the edges of the mattress and wound around me like a bandage. The chick is wounded tonight and not even a toy will make it all right.
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