Jerusalem Beach

by Iddo Gefen

  Copyright © 2021 by Iddo Gefen

  Translation copyright © 2021 by Daniella Zamir

  Originally published in the Hebrew language as

  Chof HaYam Shel Yerushalayim by Iddo Gefen.

  Copyright © 2017 Kinneret, Zmora-Bitan, Dvir – Publishing House Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Copying or digitizing this book for storage, display, or distribution in any other medium is strictly prohibited.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, please contact permissions@astrahouse.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Astra House

  A Division of Astra Publishing House

  astrahouse.com

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Gefen, Iddo, author. | Zamir, Daniella, translator.

  Title: Jerusalem Beach : stories / Iddo Gefen; translated by Daniella Zamir.

  Description: New York, NY: Astra House, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN: 2021909404 | ISBN: 978-1-6626-0043-2 (hardcover) | 978-1-6626-0044-9 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH Israel—Fiction. | Jews—Fiction. | Short stories. | BISAC FICTION / Short Stories (single author) | FICTION / World Literature / Middle East / Israel | FICTION / Jewish

  Classification: LCC PJ5054.G44 J47 2021 | DDC 892.437—dc23

  First edition

  Design by Richard Oriolo

  The text is set in Fairfield LTD.

  The titles are set in Concept Sans Bold.

  To my parents

  Contents

  The Geriatric Platoon

  Exit

  The Jerusalem Beach

  Neptune

  The Girl Who Lived Near the Sun

  Debby’s Dream House

  101.3 FM

  The Meaning of Life Ltd.

  Three Hours from Berlin

  How to Remember a Desert

  Anita Shabtai

  Lennon at the Central Bus Station

  Flies and Porcupines

  The Geriatric Platoon

  1.

  GRANDPA ENLISTED IN the Golani infantry brigade at the age of eighty. This was six months ago, a little after Grandma Miriam had suffered a stroke in the shower and died on the spot. A month and a half later, he packed a bag, stuffing it with four undershirts, five pairs of underwear, a flashlight, two cans of sardines, a biography of Moshe Sharett, and anti-chafing cream. He also added a sweater. Not because he thought he might be cold, but because he continued to fear the woman he had loved even after she had passed away. Then he canceled his subscription to the Lev Cinema, paid his debt to the butcher and called Frankel to tell him he was quitting the Friday morning gang, and they should invite Yoske Cohen to take his place.

  Dad thought Grandpa had lost his marbles, told him that’s not how normal people cope. “Go on a cruise to the Caribbean or something,” he grumbled at him the night before the draft. “You don’t have to help death along.”

  Grandpa said it was the other way ’round, that he was trying to outrun death, but Dad wouldn’t listen. He took a black notebook and pen out of his pocket, and started jotting down numbers. “Eighty-year-old soldier. One thousand ninety-five days in the military. A monthly salary of 893 shekels.” Then he mumbled to himself a series of convoluted formulas only he understood. Dad had worked his whole life as a life insurance actuary, or as he once explained to me, “someone who determines how much a person’s life is worth.” It wasn’t merely a profession to him. It was a worldview, almost a religion. Every component of his life was configured into charts and numbers. Alma always joked that he probably had an equation that determined the value of their love.

  Dad finished scribbling in his illegible handwriting and looked at Grandpa. “According to the average life span, your hereditary background and health, you have another four years to live, maybe a little less,” he determined with stifling indifference. “Wasting those years cleaning toilets and on guard duty is simply flawed logic, there’s no other way to put it.”

  Grandpa didn’t have the tools to counter his son’s complex formulas. He owned a grocery store, and even then Grandma Miriam was the one who handled the money. He tried explaining that many his age were reenlisting, that the situation down south was more precarious than ever, that someone had to defend this country instead of all those deadbeat dodgers crowding the cafés in Tel Aviv. He also said we had absolutely nothing to worry about. That he’d go to general boot camp like Yehuda from the doctor’s office and then pursue a desk job at the army headquarters.

  “The paycheck isn’t too great, but even a few shekels is something. That way I can also help you out, Yermi,” Grandpa said, and immediately realized he’d gone too far.

  “Obviously it’s just a suggestion,” he said, shifting into damage control. “You don’t have to …”

  “I won’t take a single shekel from you,” Dad declared, shutting down any further discussion of the debts. “If Mom were alive, you wouldn’t dare enlist.”

  “True,” Grandpa admitted. “But she isn’t.”

  Dad left the room, and Grandpa went back to packing his bag. He tried zipping it up, but his hands were trembling and the bag fell off the bed, photos of Grandma Miriam scattering across the floor. I helped him put everything back into the bag only to see him empty it out onto the bed again a moment later.

  He wouldn’t stop saying something was missing, but he didn’t know what.

  2.

  alman1964@gmail.com

  July 16, 2009, 04:45:02

  Subject: Hi Yuli

  How are you?

  Get back to me when you read this.

  Best,

  Alma Rosenblum,

  Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi

  3.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, on the way to the Reception and Sorting Base, Grandpa and I listened to Kol Yisrael. The broadcaster was interviewing some guy who had hiked the Israel National Trail with nothing but a hundred shekels in his pocket and two pairs of socks.

  “I should add that to my list,” Grandpa said and cleared his throat.

  “You know what I regret not having done?” he said when he realized I wasn’t going to ask.

  “What?” I asked reluctantly, and he started listing the items slowly in a monotonous voice:

  Hiking the Israel National Trail.

  Eating Mom’s gefilte fish again.

  Visiting the Arad Visitors’ Center.

  Finding the old grocery store’s sign. Maybe in the Jaffa flea market.

  Tracking down Tamar Weitzman, my first high school girlfriend who went to America and disappeared.

  Smoking a Cuban cigar.

  Telling Golda that on second thought, she wasn’t to blame for the war.

  He fell silent, waiting for my reaction, but I continued to look out at the road quietly. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about the list again, which I already knew by heart, the list of all the things he never did and now never would do. Because my grandpa, ever since I could remember him, never stopped talking about the day he’d die. He let everyone know he’d be out of here in no time, and he also liked telling people exactly when and how it would happen, including a detailed arrangement of the eulogizers at his funeral. Grandma Miriam refused to listen. She always said that if he dared bring his death into their home, she’d kill him herself, either with a frying pan or a rolling pin, whichever was closer. So he kept quiet in her presence. But when I was a kid, whenever Grandpa took me to the movies on a Saturday morning, he would start up again. He said I was the only one he could trust, an
d I listened silently, letting him go on and on until I could recite by heart his last day on earth like I could the whole team of Hapoel Kfar Saba F.C., or entire dialogues from my favorite movie, Giv’at Halfon. Carrying the burden, keeping my grandpa alive.

  4.

  A CORPORAL WITH round-rimmed glasses stood at the entrance of the reception base. “You’ve got your call-up papers?” he asked me. With a trembling hand, barely able to see a thing with his bucket hat covering half his face, Grandpa handed him his draft notice before I could get a word out. The soldier considered the draft slip and turned his gaze back to Grandpa. “No shit. You da man!” He slapped Grandpa’s shoulder. “It’s thanks to dudes like you that the people of Israel are still kicking ass. Yochai, come see this,” he yelled to a soldier next to him. “Another one joining the oldies. I’m telling you, these men are the real motherfuckers!”

  Everyone around us started looking at Grandpa, who was awkwardly shrinking into himself. Then came a round of applause. I pulled him into the square inside the base and we sat down on a bench, waiting for his name to be called. I bought him a Diet Coke but he didn’t want to drink. He looked a little lost, as if in some state of pretrauma. An elderly man who had arrived with what seemed like his entire extended family stood beside us. Grandpa looked at the man’s children and grandchildren and wife, who was literally crying on his shoulder. I wanted him to stop looking at them, so I told him to check his bag to see that nothing was missing. He seemed happy that someone was giving him orders and promptly began rummaging through the bag, until finally he announced he had forgotten to pack a towel.

  “Don’t worry, cozy up to the CSM and he’ll fix you up with a towel in no time.”

  Grandpa nodded and then asked: “What’s a CSM?” I told him it was short for “company sergeant major,” to which he replied they had just called them “sarge” when he served in the science corps sixty years ago. After a moment he added, “I haven’t slept outside the house in years.”

  “You can still change your mind. Just say the word, and we’ll drive back to Ramat Gan and have a falafel at the Georgian’s.”

  He feigned a smile. Five minutes later, the name Zvi Neuerman flashed on the big electronic board. A soldier with a green beret appeared from within the crowd, picked up Grandpa’s bag, and requested that he follow him. Grandpa put his hand on my shoulder, turned around, and started walking toward the bus. He didn’t even say goodbye. He wasn’t fond of goodbyes and didn’t really know how to go about them. When the doctor at the hospital had told him to say a final goodbye to Grandma Miriam, he stared at her for a few minutes and said he was just popping out for a moment to buy a pretzel. He didn’t come back.

  * * *

  I followed him to the bus. He struggled up the stairs, lumbering slowly all the way to the back seat. I waved to him with both hands. He glanced at me, then quickly averted his gaze.

  “They get old so fast, huh?” a woman standing next to me said. She had a high-pitched, slightly irritating voice, pretty curls, a blue dress, and black rubber boots.

  “Totally,” I answered.

  “What’s your excuse?” she asked. “Why did you make him enlist?”

  “We didn’t make him, he wanted to.” On the bus, an elderly man sat by the window, obstructing my view of Grandpa.

  “Why did he want to?”

  “He said there were too many draft dodgers in Tel Aviv,” I said, wishing she’d just go away.

  “You’re fucking with me,” she replied.

  “Excuse me?” I looked at her. She was smirking, satisfied that she’d finally managed to catch my attention.

  “Old men don’t sign up for the army because of draft dodgers in Tel Aviv.” She fished a pack of gum out of her bag and offered me a piece.

  “I hate gum.”

  The bus started crawling along, all the old fogies waving at their families. All except for my grandpa, who was hiding among them. The bus left the terminal and was instantly replaced by another one. I was beginning to feel hemmed in. Everyone was standing too close to one another. Too close to me.

  “Say,” the woman started up again. Wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace. “Why did you guys even let him enlist? Got fed up taking care of him?”

  “Are you one of those Checkpoint Watch women? What do you want from me?” I asked. My throat was dry. The air rebelled, refusing to enter my body.

  “I’m from Checkpoint Watch and the Mizrahi Coalition Against the Conscription of the Elderly,” she said and snickered. “Just kidding, sweetheart, honestly. Why so serious? Just say you can’t be bothered to look after your grandfather. It’s fine, really. Between you and me, we’re all a bunch of assholes here.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Her tone lost its sarcastic edge. “You look really pale.”

  “I’m fine,” I answered with a stifled voice. “Just a touch of asthma.”

  “You don’t have an inhaler?” she asked. I searched my pockets. It took me a few moments to realize I actually didn’t.

  “I have to get out of here,” I announced, and started scurrying toward to the exit. She yelled something, but I couldn’t hear. I was already outside the reception base. The way to the parking lot was longer than I had remembered. I made it to my car and found a bottle of sun-scorched water lying on the back seat. I downed it in one gulp. Then I turned on the air conditioner to full blast. A soldier who was passing by knocked on my window, miming if everything was okay. I gestured yes and released the hand brake. I just wanted to get out of there. I rolled out of the parking lot and pulled over at the first bus stop. It was empty. It took me a few moments to catch my breath. Once I managed to pull myself together, I headed to the call center downtown. The shift manager, a guy who had been two grades below me in high school, said it would be the last time I showed up late without notifying him.

  5.

  alman1964@gmail.com

  July 17, 2009, 02:12:35

  Subject: Re: Hi Yuli

  An Israeli traveler stopping by our office left behind a two-month-old copy of Yedioth Ahronoth. I have no idea why he had carried it around with him for so long. In any case, I saw Miriam’s name in the obituaries. I’m so sorry. She was a lovely woman. It’s true we didn’t always get along, but she really was a wonderful woman.

  I hope you and your father are okay. Did you change your number? I called but it said the number was disconnected. Honestly, I’m not even sure this is the right email address.

  Best,

  Alma Rosenblum,

  Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi

  6.

  alman1964@gmail.com

  July 17, 2009, 11:56:20

  Subject: Re: Hi Yuli

  Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

  yuli.neuerman@gmail.com

  Technical details of permanent failure:

  Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the server for the recipient domain gmail.com by gmail-smtp-in.l.google.com. [2607:f8b0:4001:c1b::1a].

  The error that the other server returned was:

  550-5.1.1 The email account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try

  550-5.1.1 double-checking the recipient’s email address for typos or

  550-5.1.1 unnecessary spaces. Learn more at

  550 5.1.1 http://support.google.com/mail/bin/answer.py?answer=6596 q18si1996584ico.33—gsmtp

  7.

  alman1964@gmail.com

  July 17, 2009, 11:56:20

  Subject: Re: Hi Yuli

  Why didn’t it send??? I need to talk to you.

  Best,

  Alma Rosenblum,

  Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi

  8.

  alman1964@gmail.com

  July 17, 2009, 12:16:34

  Subject: Re: Hi Yuli

  Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

  yuli.neuerman@gmail.com

  Tech
nical details of permanent failure:

  Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the server for the recipient domain gmail.com by gmail-smtp-in.l.google.com. [2607:f8b0:4001:c1b::1a].

  The error that the other server returned was:

  550-5.1.1 The email account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try

  550-5.1.1 double-checking the recipient’s email address for typos or

  550-5.1.1 unnecessary spaces. Learn more at

  550 5.1.1 http://support.google.com/mail/bin/answer. py?answer=6596 q18si1996584ico.33—gsmtp

  9.

  GRANDPA CAME HOME for the weekend. When Dad and I went to visit him, we found him sitting alone on the roof. Stripped down to his underwear and white T-shirt, he had placed his black army boots near the entrance to the balcony and hung his uniforms on the clothesline. He held an IWI Tavor rifle in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other.

  “I see they were generous with the equipment,” I said to Grandpa, who turned his head to me, nodding contentedly. Dad pulled up a chair and sat down beside him silently.

  “Well,” I asked, “how was it?”

  “Grueling,” he replied. “Especially in the reception base. They’re worse than the Social Security office, believe me. Just filling out the forms at the sorting officer’s took me four hours.”

  “What forms?” Dad asked, to which Grandpa smiled. “I assumed you’d want copies,” he said, taking out a few folded papers from his pocket. “Don’t worry, the sorting officer said it was routine protocol. To make sure you didn’t send me off to the army just because you didn’t feel like forking up the money for a retirement home.”

  Dad skimmed through the forms. “Congrats, looks like you signed a terrific contract.”

  “I actually didn’t even read it.”

  “I can tell,” Dad said. “Just so you know, if you happen to be dying as we speak, or get Alzheimer’s, the army won’t have to pay you a single shekel. That’s one upstanding organization, your IDF,” he said to me, and sighed. Even two years after my discharge, to him I was still the commander in chief’s official representative. Dad unzipped his black fanny pack and fished out a few papers. “Like I thought,” he said, “we’re going to have to get private health insurance.” He handed Grandpa a pen and a few folded forms.