Jerusalem Beach

by Iddo Gefen

  “Your son is tougher than the squad commanders at boot camp, huh?” I said to Grandpa, after which Dad shoved a few forms into my hand as well.

  “What, I’m being drafted again too? Last time I checked I already served my stint in Golani,” I said.

  “Employment and bank forms,” he explained. “I’m guessing you haven’t noticed that you’ve been working for two months without getting paid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your salary hasn’t been transferred to your bank account. You’ve been volunteering at the call center, which is nice of you, but not what I’d call financially sound. Go ahead, what do you care, it’s always good to fill out forms,” he said, and meant it. Dad was the one person in the world who liked bureaucracy. I don’t mean he learned to live with it. He liked bureaucracy the way he liked pistachio ice cream and organized tours of Kibbutz Kfar Blum. Something about the meticulous order, the unambiguous questions, soothed him. I filled everything out in a few seconds, but Grandpa took Dad’s rebuke to heart and carefully considered each and every sentence.

  “Does this form also cover injuries sustained under operational circumstances?” Grandpa asked. “War, covert missions, etc.”

  “I’m not sure a rusty stapler falls under the category of operational circumstances,” Dad said with a smile.

  “What stapler?” Grandpa puzzled, turning his gaze to me. “Golani is no joke. You more than anyone should know!”

  Dad and I laughed. Grandpa didn’t understand why.

  “Who’d recruit you to Golani?”

  “They already did. They’ve opened a new training course,” he replied, and went back to the forms.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked him, hoping he’d give some reasonable explanation before Dad lost it. Grandpa told us that once he finished signing all the forms, the sorting officer patted him on the back and said that a man like him could make an even more significant contribution. That it wasn’t every day a veteran in such great shape reenlisted.

  “And you’re telling me you said yes?” Dad asked.

  “Of course. If I’m called upon to serve my country, who am I to say no? The nice fellow said I was born to be an infantryman. Even said I had the makings of an officer. Can you believe it, Yuli? We could both end up platoon commanders!”

  “You’re actually talking to me about Bahad 1? Officers school??” Dad cut him off and shifted his gaze to me. “Could you please explain to me how senior citizens are enlisting to Golani and I’m the only one who thinks the world’s gone mad?”

  Grandpa took a sip of his coffee. He tried to divert the conversation by mentioning there was some of Grandma Miriam’s soup left in the freezer, and that we were welcome to stay for dinner.

  “Pea soup won’t help you here,” Dad said. His face flushed red. Truth be told, at that moment, I agreed with him. I was also starting to feel that this whole enlisting business had gone too far, but I didn’t want to leave Grandpa to fend for himself.

  “It’s not as if they’re going to deploy him to Lebanon tomorrow,” I said, trying to calm things down. “They’ll probably set him up with a suitable position, it’s a special unit for people his age, isn’t it?”

  Grandpa nodded.

  “How exactly is enlisting to Golani suitable for an eighty-year-old man, in any scenario?”

  “They know what they’re doing. I bet they adjusted the whole training course for them, I’m telling you. Old people are doing crazy things nowadays. Just yesterday I read about a ninety-year-old Japanese man who ran a full marathon. Compared to him, Grandpa’s still a baby.”

  “You truly don’t grasp the difference between a marathon and boot camp?” Dad yelled. “The army isn’t supposed to provide employment for bored widowers. How could you, who fought a war, not understand that?”

  “Because you, who served as a student-soldier in the Tel Aviv headquarters, do understand?” I barked at him. “What’s the big deal? So he’ll pull a little guard duty. It’s better than lying in bed all day waiting for a stroke.”

  Grandpa coughed. I could see by his expression that he was trying to hide the insult; with a few brief sentences, we’d practically buried him alive.

  “I don’t know about you guys,” he said, “but I’m going to enjoy a nice bowl of soup.” Grandpa got up, took a few steps toward the stairs, and stumbled on a loose tile. His cup almost fell, and the remainder of his coffee spilled over his white shirt, staining it with black, moist grains. Dad rushed toward him. He picked him up gently, cleaned his hands with a torn tissue he fished out of his pocket. Then he went downstairs to fetch a wet kitchen towel. I offered Grandpa to help him down the stairs.

  “Don’t. At eighty, a man should start learning to manage by himself,” he announced and descended the entire staircase, only to come back up because he had forgotten his rifle on the roof.

  10.

  alman1964@gmail.com

  July 27, 2009, 03:52:48

  Subject: Re: Hi Yuli

  You’re not getting my emails. I know. I got one of those automatic notices. But I’m going to keep writing you anyway. Okay? I can’t really explain it. I feel I need to, even if you won’t read it. Actually, maybe because you won’t read it. I know it’s silly. Trust me, I know, but since I saw Miriam’s obituary, I’ve been having all these thoughts but no one to share them with. It’s pathetic, I know, but what can I say, it’s the truth. Who am I going to tell? The Indians? The twenty-year-old backpackers? The Chabad rabbi who visits our offices every Monday and Thursday and still doesn’t understand how a mother can leave everything behind and move to India on her own?

  So I’ll write you. Just a little. That’s my biggest flaw anyway, right? That I always put myself first. You said it yourself the last time we spoke on the phone. You said that the day I boarded the plane you realized I’d always put myself first. That you had always suspected it, but that my going to India proved it once and for all. Believe me, had I known that three months later you would stop answering my calls, I would never even have considered hanging up.

  I tried calling you, as I’m sure you know. Five times this past week alone. You didn’t answer. Not assigning blame, just stating a fact. Surprisingly, your father did pick up. Actually, it’s not surprising at all. Pretending everything’s fine is practically his expertise. He told me Miriam fell in the shower. Strange, isn’t it? How a person can fall in the shower, and in a split second it’s all over. Just like that. He also told me your grandpa enlisted in that old people’s combat unit (is it actually called the geriatric platoon?? Has to be a joke.). Listen, I’m the last person who can criticize the country, but this sounds a bit wacky … What exactly are they going to do with them? Who are they going to fight? Hamas? Hezbollah? Your father didn’t explain. He never does. He wouldn’t talk about the debts either. I tried talking to him, believe me I tried. He probably doesn’t talk to you about it either. Or maybe he even told you it had been resolved. Sounds like him. What can I tell you, Yuli, I wish he’d confide in you, just a little. Not for your sake, but for his. Secrets rot the soul, it isn’t healthy to live like that.

  This is so ridiculous. Writing to no one.

  I’m going to stop now.

  Best,

  Alma Rosenblum,

  Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi

  11.

  GRANDPA DIDN’T COME home the following Friday, nor did he answer his phone. I made a few calls to people I knew from the army and finally reached a welfare NCO at the Golani training base. After looking into the matter, she told me that Grandpa had been granted a lone soldier status. Having informed them he couldn’t live alone, he was being housed at the Senior Citizens’ Center in Rehovot. According to the NCO, he said he was being neglected by his family, and she subtly inquired whether social services were involved.

  I couldn’t believe he had lied like that. Badmouthed the only two people in the world who looked after him. The day Grandma Miriam died, I quit my job a
t the restaurant I’d been working at before the call center, and Dad took a month’s leave from work even though he couldn’t really afford it. And despite the fact that for the past thirty years he and Grandpa had only been pretending to talk to each other. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of Alma, or maybe there are other reasons. Actually, I’m not even sure they know, but it was hard not to notice the distance between them; how they always settled for a hesitant handshake, like businessmen in a useless meeting. Dad tried laughing it off, said it was just the way of Ashkenazi families, and left it at that.

  I walked into Dad’s study. He was sitting at his desk in front of piles of papers. The moment I entered, he folded the letter he was reading. I couldn’t see what was written in it, but I spotted the logo of a law firm. I preferred not to ask.

  “Listen, you were right,” I admitted, not without frustration, and told him everything. “I’m going to call his platoon commander right now and tell him they have to send Grandpa home.”

  Dad opened one of the drawers and took out a pill sheet. “Headache,” he said and swallowed two pills without water. “You’re going to do no such thing.”

  “Have you lost it? Any second now they’re going to charge us with abusing the elderly!”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “Listen, I’ve talked to people in the brigade, you have no idea what he’s telling them about us.”

  “I know,” he answered. “The NCO called me.”

  “What?”

  “Someone called me last night. Some soldier. She said Grandpa wants to move to one of those homes for elderly soldiers, but that they only accept soldiers who don’t have a supportive family.”

  “Well, did you set things straight?”

  “Yes. I told her we didn’t look after him at all.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Absolutely not,” Dad said. “I told them we’d be happy if the home could take him off our hands.”

  “What? How could you even say something like that?”

  “Easily. If he wants to move in with his friends, who am I to stop him?” he explained calmly, and I couldn’t understand how the most rational man I knew could actually think that way.

  “You gave him hell when he wanted to enlist, and now it’s not driving you crazy that everyone thinks he’s some abused old man?”

  “No. That’s not it at all.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “The thing is, old people aren’t supposed to be protecting us …”

  Dad fell silent. He noticed I was staring at a repossession notice that lay on his desk. He folded it in two and quickly shoved it back into the envelope.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “None of your business,” he answered adamantly. “As with Grandpa. Simply none of your business.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you explained to me what’s going on?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He stacked a few papers into a neat pile, switched off the light, and walked out.

  12.

  SATURDAY MORNING I went to see Grandpa. First, to tell him off, and second, to check that he was okay. The Senior Citizens’ Center in Rehovot wasn’t the miserable sight I’d expected. It was a three-story building with a large aquarium at the entrance. A few old people sat in black leather armchairs in the first-floor foyer, talking about shooting range practice. Other than the topic of conversation, the place pretty much resembled an old age home. The receptionist said that Zvi Neuerman was in room 306, third floor. The door was open. I walked in without knocking. Grandpa was sitting on the bed with two other old men, in the middle of a round of backgammon. He didn’t know how to play backgammon, but neither he nor the old man next to him seemed to mind.

  “I’m glad to see they’re not neglecting you here,” I said to him. He smiled in reply, deliberately ignoring my sarcastic tone.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in! Lovely to see you,” Grandpa said. He was wearing fatigues and a T-shirt, and a dog tag with his name on it around his neck. “Meet Nathaniel Shapiro, fellow platoon member, and Yossi Buzaglo, history NCO in the education corps,” he said, pointing at his friends.

  “Who’s this youngin’?” Shapiro asked. Grandpa laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.

  “You heard I got top marks on my CPR test?”

  “You’re being serious? You’re talking to me about some CPR test? Where did you get the nerve to tell that welfare NCO that we’re—”

  “The only one in the whole platoon, ain’t that something?” he cut me off, and started rhapsodizing about the AN/PRC 77 Radio Set training and target practice. Grandpa said he got a little nervous at first but then started to enjoy himself, and that even Waxman, the platoon commander, had praised his steady grip.

  “Is 4cm grouping considered good?” he asked.

  “That’s not the issue,” I growled. “I can’t believe you said—”

  “So it’s not good,” he said, lowering his gaze.

  “It just has nothing to do with it. And 4cm is great for your first target practice. But listen, what you told them doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “No, seriously, for your first try it’s great. Really.”

  “Hear that, Buzaglo? My grandson here was in Golani, and he says it’s a great score! Ain’t that something?”

  I gave up. I realized I wasn’t going to get through to him.

  “Neuerman, stop being such a newbie,” Shapiro said, standing by the door. “And quit wearing your weapon like that, strapped across your chest. No one does that.”

  Grandpa got upset and announced there was no such thing as too cautious when it came to safety, at which Shapiro smiled and said he was just gung-ho because he was dying to be admitted to the squad commanders’ course.

  Afterward, Grandpa quietly asked me what “gung-ho” meant and whether it was good or bad.

  I lied and said it depended on how you looked at it.

  Grandpa stared at a photo of Grandma Miriam that lay on his bedside table. It had been taken during their trip to Niagara Falls six years earlier. Grandma was cocooned in a red raincoat, her face barely visible. The white sheets on Grandpa’s bed boasted the logo of the Association for the Elderly, and hanging on the wall above it was a frayed poster of Barbra Streisand.

  “Buzaglo heard I like her so he set me up with the poster.”

  I told him it looked like a real warrior’s bed, and he gave a satisfied smile. He glanced at Grandma’s photo again. “If she could only see me now,” he said. “She would never have believed it.”

  He suggested I stay a bit longer and join them for lunch in the dining hall, announcing proudly that it was goulash day, but I told him I had to get going. He thanked me for coming and hugged me so tightly that for a moment I felt bad for rushing to leave. Grandpa went back to his backgammon game and tossed the dice.

  “Oooh, a triple win! You bastard,” Shapiro said. Grandpa had no idea what a triple win meant, but he couldn’t stop smiling.

  13.

  alman1964@gmail.com

  August 8, 2009, 01:31:24

  Subject: Re: Hi Yuli

  Once a month, Yuli. I promise not to write more than one email a month, but I can’t not write you at all. I’ve tried. I even bought a journal. One of those fancy ones with a brown cover. I wrote you there a few times, but it just doesn’t do the trick. This whole thing is moronic, I know. Believe me, I know. After all, what’s the difference, right? It’s not as if these emails are actually reaching you. It’s like writing to a brick wall, but what can I do. The journal didn’t provide any solace, while an email that doesn’t even reach its recipient does. And I’ve already decided that wherever I manage to find solace, I won’t go looking for the reason. So I’m going to keep writing you. Only once a month. No more than that. Okay, Yuli? Oh, how I love that name. You know I have a calendar in my office that I keep open to the month of July? I keep thinking to myself how lucky
I am that your father insisted on naming you Yuli and not Nadav, like I wanted. Just imagine, I’d be stuck in this stinking office in Delhi without anything to remind me of you. The thought alone is unbearable.

  You know, I had planned on hanging up in the middle of our conversation. This isn’t easy to admit even to myself, but my hanging up—right after you told me I’d always put myself first—was planned. It’s hard to explain, but from the day I decided to divorce your father, I knew that conversation was coming. I had played it out in my head thousands of times. How you were going to yell at me, vent your anger. It scared me so much I even rehearsed the scene in front of the mirror, tried to figure out how I’d answer. What I could say to mollify you. Like when you were little, remember? When Dad broke your Game Boy and you threw a tantrum, and I hugged you so tightly and said I wouldn’t stop until I popped you like a balloon and deflated all the anger? And you started to laugh.

  Every parent who gets divorced eats themselves up about it, scared they messed up their kids’ lives. But a mom who gives up custody like that, without putting up a fight? And not only that, but leaves her ex all alone with debts that are basically her fault? I cannot begin to describe the amount of self-hatred I had to deal with, Yuli. I really can’t. And trust me, I know perfectly well I’m the last person who deserves pity in this whole story. I keep hearing Miriam’s voice in my head, reminding me of that. I don’t want to speak evil of her, she was still your grandmother. Let’s just say she couldn’t stand me from the moment we met. And I can’t blame her, you know? She was right all along. What business did a thirty-year-old actuary have with an eighteen-year-old soldier? A man so cautious he never even jaywalked. She couldn’t understand how her son came back one day from reserve duty at the army headquarters with an orphaned clerk. A girl from a kibbutz without a shekel to her name. What can I tell you, Yuli? I understand her. It was an odd choice. But your father was an odd man. I knew that from the moment I saw him. A guy walking around with a fanny pack and a calculator in his shirt pocket because he never knew when he might need it, cannot be described as normal.