... Until You are Home Again

Rifiuto: Non Mirena

Summary: They had no choice. Like rats fleeing the sinking Titanic, they fled the Emerald Isle in fear for their lives. For the safety of their family, they separated, fleeing the cliffs of Ireland for the sands of Israel; brushing kisses to their heads and sending them to live with a family who would take care of them, until they could return. And in the time gone, in the years passed, they would discover just how much their children had changed, just how deeply Israel had settled into their blood, and how dangerous the paths they'd chosen could turn, and where, exactly, those paths would take them. AU. McGiva. Written February - June 2011.

"To be Irish is to know that, in the end, the world will break your heart."

- Daniel Patrick Moynihan,

1927 - 2003

Belfast,

Ireland

1988

"Now you listen to me, Sarah Aileen. This is what's best, ye hear me? We don't 'ave a choice."

"But I want to 'tay with you."

"You can't, baby. It's no' safe for you. We near lost Timmy las' month, 'member?"

The girl turned to stare at her older brother, who was holding tight to the teddy bear his grandmother had given him before they'd left for the airport that morning. Though he was just four months shy of his tenth birthday, at the moment, he looked to be nothing more than a frightened child, terrified of venturing away from the only home he'd ever known.

"But Mams-"

"No, Sarah. We have to do this. This is what's best for you and your brother." The girl shook her head, bursting into tears and throwing her arms around her mother's waist. Their father watched, tears in his green eyes as he told himself that they were doing right by their children. If they stayed, they might never survive to see their teenage years, let along adulthood; besides, there was a nice family waiting to take them in-

Home Children, that's what my babies are becoming. Like... immigrant children sent to Canada during the early twentieth century to work on farms or as domestic help.

He shook his head; no. That was not what his children were becoming. They were being sent away for a chance to survive. A chance to thrive, and prosper, and grow. And the family... the family that had agreed to take them...

We have two girls and a son; it is relatively safe where we live, in central Tel Aviv, though we do spend summers at the beach and winters in Be'er Sheva. They will get good meals and a good education, and strong support in everything they do. You may contact them as often as you wish; however, because we are Jewish, we do observe our holidays. They may observe if they wish, unfortunately, there is no Catholic Church for them to attend, though we do possess a couple bibles they may read if they so choose. We will treat them as though they were our own, and look forward to meeting them soon.

He swallowed, closing his eyes briefly. Jews. He was sending his children into the waiting arms of Israeli Jews. He had nothing against the family nor the Jewish people- no, he was concerned about the violence the Israelis faced at the hands of the Palestinians. Was he trading one war zone for another, sending his innocent children to be the sacrificial lambs? Should he have sent them to Canada, or even America instead?

No. You have already made the arrangements; you cannot back out now. They are willing to take them for however long these Troubles last. You should be grateful.

And while he was, there was that small, niggling kernel of apprehension at the back of his mind. Had he made the wrong choice?

"Listen t' me, Sarah. Ye 'ave t' do this. 'tis bette' for all of us. Ye will be safe, 'tis all Da an' I wan' for ye an' yer brothe'. Undestan'?"

Slowly, the girl nodded, hiccuping. Without a word, his wife wrapped their youngest in her arms, humming a soft lullaby as she gently stroked her hand through the dark red curls. Sarah clung to her mother, frightened beyond words to be leaving Ireland. While she clung to their mother, her older brother sat apart, perched on his suitcase, clinging tight to the teddy bear Penny had given them. She was bound for America in a couple days, but hadn't been able to get away from work to see her only grandchildren off at the airport. So their goodbyes had been said that morning over breakfast-

Their mother had outdone herself, insisting that her babies have one last, good, strong Irish meal before they leave, for the good Lord above only knew when they'd taste the sweet richness of their homeland again. She'd then wrapped two small loaves of soda bread in cloth and slipped them into her children's carry-ons, along with a small leather pouch filled with charms and small trinkets- silver horseshoes, delicate four-leave clovers made of white gold, trinity knots, tree of life pendants, stones from the streams near Clontarf, where she'd been born, a small book of psalms, two silver Claddagh Rings that had belonged their father and aunt, two small St. Brigid crosses, two rosaries with Celtic crosses, and two small flags of Ireland- to remind them of where they came from. Around their throats, hung silver medallions baring the effigy of St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers, who would protect them on the flight.

"Attention. We will now begin boarding for Flight three-sixteen, bound for Tel Aviv. All passengers on Flight three-sixteen for Tel Aviv, we will now begin boarding."

Slowly, she released Sarah, gently brushing a wispy strand of hair out of her daughter's eyes. "A chuisle tá grá agam ort." Sarah giggled, whispering the phrase back to her mother, before the woman stood, pressing a kiss to her head. She then turned to her son, going to him and kneeling before him. The boy looked up at her, angry tears in his green eyes.

"I wanna stay, Mams-"

"Hush, me Tim'thy, me love. I wan' ye t' stay. Bu' ye canna. 'tis t' dangerous."

"Bu-"

"Ye will be safer in Israel. I promise. An' once th' Troubles end, ye can come home." She reached up, cradling her oldest son's face in her hand. A moment passed as she brushed tears off his cheeks, "Okay?" Slowly, the boy nodded, throwing his arms around his mother's neck. Gently, she rocked back and forth with her son, holding him close, whispering a prayer into his red locks. "Tá grá agam ort." The boy whispered it back to her before pulling away. With one last firm kiss to his forehead, she let him go, standing as he and Sarah joined the other passengers and began to board. At one point, he looked back, tears in his eyes, before Sarah tugged his hand to continue down the terminal.

They stood with countless others, watching as the plane taxied down the runway and took off; her husband's strong arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close, and she quickly crossed herself. Taking a deep breath, she turned tear-filled eyes to the heavens, choking on a sob as she spoke,

"I pray t' Christopher f'r th' protection an' safety of all aboard that flight, make sure it reaches Tel Aviv whole... an' I... I pray t' Brigid, patroness o' our blessed isles... an' t' Patrick an' Columba, whom also guard our blessed country... watch over me babes... pro... protect them as we would... keep 'em ever in yer blessed sigh' an'... an' bless the Davids... make sure they 'rive un'armed an' safe int' th' arms o' th' David family... make sure they love our babes as we do... an'..." She swallowed. "an' watch ov'r all o' us still 'ere, tha' we may... may find a swift end t' th' violence in our land... so tha' our babes may one day ret'rn t' us. In Christ's name..."

She choked on the 'Amen' turning and burying her face in her husband's shoulder, as the realization of what they'd just done penetrated her brain, and tore open her heart.