They were sitting down for dinner. Salomon quietly blessed the food, and they started eating in silence when a burst of screams and cries suddenly came from the neighbor’s corner of the yard. They listened anxiously. Their tiny patio was shared with an old lady’s adjacent small room, who had already been robbed once.

“They are robbing her again,” said Adele and rose from her seat.

“Please don’t interfere! Please!” Salomon pleaded with her. “We have enough trouble of our own.”

She stood by the stove where a pot of boiling water was bubbling, listening to the shouts outside.

“Adele, please!” repeated Salomon.

Outside, two teenagers were hitting the old woman. She was lying folded over on the ground, howling and trying unsuccessfully to protect herself against the beating. The teenagers were yelling at her, threatening to kill her if she wouldn’t tell them where she hid her jewelry. “God, please, you took everything,” she managed to say, crying in pain. “Please stop, oh God, please, I can’t breathe.”

Adele had had enough. She snapped the door open.

“Leave her alone! Animals! Get out of here!” she yelled at them.

“Shut up, you Jewish bitch,” they shouted back, unimpressed. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you next!” they sneered, attending again to the old lady, pulling her hair and dragging her on the paved patio to her apartment entrance.

Seeing this, Adele turned from the door, ran to the stove, and grabbed the pot of boiling water. Then she quickly ran out into the yard and stood above the poor woman lying on the ground with the bowl in her hands.

“This Jewish bitch will cook your ugly faces, you bastards!” she burst, gasping furiously, approaching them, ready for confrontation.

“You’re the first!” she told the older one, raising the pot to his face. “Then I’ll save a pot for your ugly little brother here!” The boys retreated in apprehension.

“Wimpy bastards! She could be your grandmother, you little rats! Bug off, and don’t ever come back here!” she seethed furiously. “If I see you here again, you’ll hear from the Imam. Let’s see what he has to say about this.”

The two boys retreated fearfully and ran away. Adele laid the pot on the ground and helped the shacking old woman to her feet, supporting her to the door and opening it.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Françoise. Lie down in bed, and we’ll call Dr. Halil,” she said breathlessly, collecting the pot with the hot water and entering the house. She stepped inside, put it back on the stove, and remained standing with her back to the table, catching her breath, trying to control her still-trembling hands. Mark and his father, frozen in their seats, were looking at her, speechless.

“You’re crazy,” Salomon mumbled at last. “Just plain crazy,” he added in despair. She turned to face them, pale and resolute, and looking intently at Mark, she directed her words at him, with her voice still trembling. “You must never give in to the wicked. You can always hurt them back, even if they’re a thousand times stronger. If you don’t, they’ll always trample on you!”

Salomon sat in his chair, his head between his hands. But Mark listened ecstatically. His eyes were on his mother’s pale and determined face, absorbing every detail, every curve of that fierce female warrior figure that had just erupted out of her, watching her struggle to regain her normal self-containment.

Salomon went out to see Françoise and to call the doctor from the telephone booth on the pier. Mark and his mother remained, the two of them looking at each other. Then, not fully aware of what he was doing, he rose and hugged her forcefully, feeling more than hearing her, weeping.

There was one more moment of sudden discovery that summer. Storms in the Atlantic occurred mainly during winter. But August was unpredictable and could bring some extremely violent bursts that lasted for days. Mark came running home from school on his way to the restaurant, wet from the heavy rain and watching the waves crashing over the breakwater. The fishing boats were swinging wildly on their moorings, and the air was full of the high-pitched cacophony of ropes and wires flapping violently in the wind.

Some fishermen sheltered from the rain in the openings of their stores were peering anxiously into the bay. The tying rope of one boat moored to the pier pilings somehow unfastened, and she was drifting wildly toward the other boats, starting to bump into them. The fishermen tried to catch the rope, but it floated loose in the water. Through the heavy rain and the howling wind, Mark could hear the sounds of wooden boards breaking. The fishermen stood huddled in heavy coats and hoods, helpless. He stopped by the motionless bunch, ignoring the rain, watching the emerging disaster.

“Do you have a 160 line?” he asked one of the fishermen after a while.

The man turned to look at him. It was Munier, Abu Hamza’s son. They used this type of fishing line for big tuna fishing, and Mark remembered them talking about its strength.

“Hello, Munier,” Mark said politely.

“Why?”

Then, vaguely understanding Mark’s intent, Munier went inside and came out with a spool of green fishing wire with a large hook at its end. He thought the boy would try to throw the line, hook first, and catch the floating rope. But Mark was thinking of something else. He tossed his satchel aside and stood, estimating the moment the waves would recede after ferociously hitting the pier. He waited for some time, studying the forceful cycles of the rumbling sea. Waves come in rows of seven, he remembered them explaining once.

He took the reel in one hand, releasing the attached hook from the inside. It can be done, he thought. Just pick the right moment, in and out. Then, decided, he leaped into the water and started swimming toward the wildly bumping boats. It was much harder than he thought. The waves were coming from all directions, and the spray blinded his sight. The rope was still floating in the turbulent water, its other end attached to the straying boat. Struggling desperately to reach it, he finally got hold of the thick and heavy rope, sticking the hook deep into it and swimming back to the pier, releasing the fishing line behind him. The fishermen were now standing closer to the edge, watching him treading water breathlessly. He saw them waving their hands excitedly, shouting encouragement into the deafening rumble of the sea and the howling wind.

“Come on, Marky! Come on, lad! You can do it, Marky, come on.”

He waited for a coming wave to take him onto the pier, helplessly aware that his difficulty breathing was more panic than fatigue. In front of him was the dark two-meter concrete wall, covered with sea moss and shells, threatening to suck him down with the roaring receding water, only to be rammed a second later by the next giant wave crashing on top of it.

“Come on, Marky! Let the surf take you! We’ll catch you, don’t be afraid! Come on, boy, come on!”

He was scared and tired, and desperate. Still, something within forced him to swim closer, breathlessly aware of the lack of any other way out. Then, in a sudden rush of panic, he was forcefully lifted and carried uncontrollably to the pier, tossed with a suffocating splash of foamy water into a bundle of helping hands and rolling bodies. I’m safe, he thought; I’m safe now. They quickly helped each other to their feet and started pulling the fishing wire attached to the heavy rope. It took a while, but finally, they could lift it out of the water and pull the boat back, tightly securing it again to the bulky mooring. Cursing loudly in excitement, they patted the exhausted boy’s head and shoulders, covering him with a towel. Then they marched him, wet and shivering, to the restaurant and to Adele’s wrath.

She was already worried, frequently going to the window and looking up at the pier. He should have been back from school an hour ago. The storm was pouring diagonal rain and sea spray all over. When she finally saw them coming, they were already at the door. She hurried to open it to a gust of wind and sea salt. They crowded inside, shutting the door with their backs, and stood looking at her, soaked and wet-faced, hesitating where to start. But she was much quicker than any of them.

“Mark Farhi! I will not hear one word from you now! Go dry yourself in the back and stay there till I’m finished with these bums. Understand? Go!” She’s seriously angry with me this time, he thought, too drained to start explaining.

“Yes, Mom,” he mumbled, stumbling into the back room, avoiding his father’s gaze from the kitchen window.

“Madam Adele,” tried Munier awkwardly, “please don’t be angry with Marky. He has just saved us our boats… Truly, madam…you should be proud.”

“And here’s his bag, madam,” said another, coming forward and handing her the wet satchel.

She peered into the wet content inside, taking out the soggy notebooks and papers and spreading them on one of the tables to dry.

“Salomon,” she called to her husband over her shoulder, “tell Marky there are dry clothes in the basket at the back.”

“And you gentlemen…” She turned to them, still occupied in separating the wet papers. “Just what did you do to save your boats…? If you don’t mind me asking… Sending a thirteen-year-old boy to swim for you, from the look of it. Right?”

“No, no, madam, no,” objected Munier. “Please. We would never have asked him to leap into the water in this weather. Never. The boy decided to jump before we could talk him out of it. Didn’t say a word, just jumped. Truly, madam. Before we could stop him, he was swimming in the water.”

“To everybody’s relief, I would guess,” she retorted sarcastically. But she got the picture. She knew her son.

Dripping and exhausted, they moved to the bar, wiping their faces.

“Worth a drink,” said Munier. “A bottle, actually.” They stood by the counter while she pulled out a bottle and glasses and poured, keeping her eyes on the backyard where Mark was silently washing.

Late that night, she went into his room and sat on the bed, stroking his hair. “I was so scared, Mom,” he said, looking into her eyes. She didn’t say anything, just sat there stroking his hair. But after kissing him good night, half asleep, he heard her voice at the door. “Fear is just an emotion, Marky. Stronger than most, maybe, when it takes hold of you, but still. You learn to live with it. I did.”