Présentation de l'éditeur “SOPHISTICATED AND SUSPENSEFUL . . . TAUTLY WRITTEN . . . Wilentz knows the world she writes about very well, and her descriptions have a solid specificity that lends authority to her fiction.”–The New York Times Book Review“At a closed Israeli checkpoint, Marina, a Palestinian mother, clutches her ailing boy, desperate for access to Jerusalem and its doctors. When a young Israeli soldier waits too long before deciding to disobey orders, a martyr is born. Thus begins a graceful, painful, illuminating novel of the Middle East. . . . [Wilentz’s] prose tugs at the reader. . . . The characters are magnetic. . . . [This] is a very human tale of regrets, revenge, and the elusive nature of absolution.”–Entertainment Weekly“SO PRECISE, SO STARTLING, SO UNFORGETTABLE. . . . These characters are all pawns of history and politics, but Wilentz makes them live.”–Los Angeles Times“MAGNIFICENT . . . Wilentz writes with a prose style reminiscent of The New Yorker’s highest ambitions: crystalline, pure, faultlessly communicative. . . . Like the best documentaries, Martyrs’ Crossing allows us unprecedented access to a little-understood and often misrepresented part of the world.”–Chicago Tribune“A BRILLIANTLY RESEARCHED MEDIDATION ON THE CRISIS IN THE MIDDLE EAST . . . Martyr’s Crossing matches Damascus Gate in the quality of research and the mass of intriguing characters–and yet it remains a lean thriller.”–The New York Observer Extrait She wanted to be lifted away from here by angels,plucked up into the empty sky. Failing angels, she wouldaccept any transportation--no matter how mean, no matterhow low. The crowd was squeezing the breath out of her,and Ibrahim 'shand kept almost slipping away. Marina picked him up so that shewouldn't lose hold of him. He turned and twisted irritably in her arms.There was too much old sweat here, there were too many bodies close tohers, and the whole thing made her feel like retching, like running. Toomany people were breathing down her neck, and whose breath was it? Noone who knew her, no one she wanted to know. Strangers,foreigners, washow she thought of them, really, even though they were her own people,standing packed around her. Finally, she was sharing their predicament.She had always thought she wanted to.They were all treading dust out here on the Ramallah road under theblue winter sky, and Ibrahim was inhaling it, too, like fire. It was scratchyair. He coughed and coughed again, and squirmed in her arms, trying tosee what was happening. He was pale and feverish,but there was strengthin those little legs. Marina looked down at his flushed cheeks. She lookedthrough the dust up at the sky and saw a string of faded plastic flags fluttering over the road, crisscrossing it. There was a picture of the Chairman on one side of each flag, and on the reverse, a picture of a jowlycommando who had been assassinated more than ten years earlier.She felt an elbow grind into her side. No one liked to be this close tohis fellow man--she could say that with certainty. A car alarm yowled.The crowd was approaching the yellow sign: PREPARE YOUR DOCUMENTSFOR INSPECTION. The sky overhead was clear, but there was a threat inthe clouds piling up far out to the west over the distant sea. The windwhipped through the cypresses that scrabbled up a hill behind the lowstores and houses. Straining toward the rickety watchtower that overlooked Shuhada checkpoint, the faces of the crowd, upturned and expectant,were like faces in religious paintings,the faces of believers waitingfor a miracle. Just let me through, Marina thought. A man next to hercoughed in Ibrahim 's face.Next time, get him out of there and over to us as fast as you can, Dr.Miller had said. He needs to be on the machines. He needs drips you can 'talways get at your hospitals. He needs our nebulizers.She held Ibrahim tightly with one arm, and pushed his hair back fromhis eyes. He felt hot and he looked frightened, and this was a b
