Jerusalem Beach

by Iddo Gefen

  But neither could I. That’s why we were such a good match. How does that Yehuda Amichai poem go? People use each other. And we definitely used each other. With our hands. Mouths. Eyes. With our loneliness. We were one of those couples people see on the street and feel a little sorry for, because you can tell neither of them is much of a catch. Everybody is so sure love is two people who chose to be together. But I always knew it was the other way around. It’s when two people feel that this is their one and only chance at love, so they hold on tightly and don’t let go. Hold on to each other until their knuckles are white. Because they know that in this world there’s only one person they’ll get the chance to love, so they better not screw it up.

  You know when I realized your dad and I were one of those couples? The day he took me to Shalom Meir Tower. That weekend you left for your first summer camp with the scouts. Remember? Your dad wouldn’t explain why he was dragging me on a Friday night to the eighteenth floor of a closed office building. Would you believe that your dad, that dork, would do such a thing? I remember he opened the door and I thought he had gone mad. I was sure he had actually broken into the place! He pulled me into the most beautiful room in the office, a giant room overlooking Jaffa, with a gorgeous parquet floor. He stood me in front of the window and announced: “We’re going for it.” And before I even realized what he was talking about, that klutz tried to kiss me but tripped and took me down with him. It was only in the hospital, when they put a cast on my leg, that he whispered in my ear that he had rented the place. The entire office. And that very morning had quit his job at the insurance agency. And that he and I were going to set up the travel agency I had always dreamed of.

  Believe me, I thought he was crazy. I’m not joking, Yuli. I told him it was hardly the right time to talk about it, that it was simply nonsense. And right then and there in front of the nurse, I started yelling at him that we’d need to take out a second mortgage to rent an office like that, and that he didn’t even know anything about international travel, that I myself had barely been in the industry for four years. And that we needed to save money, like adults, so you could go to college like everyone else. And while I was busy yelling at him, your father put his finger on my lips and said that worst case scenario we’d fall on each other’s asses, which we had already proven we were pretty good at.

  Oh, what can I tell you, Yuli? It was the kitschiest, most romantic thing an utterly unromantic man had ever said to me (you know that on our very first date he declared he wouldn’t be celebrating any anniversaries? Said he found them a waste of time and money). And at that moment I realized the lengths he’d go for me. I also realized that what we had between us wasn’t exactly love but something even stronger, something miserable but at the same time more binding, which I can’t even attempt to define.

  But why am I telling you all this, Yuli? Parents aren’t supposed to share romantic anecdotes with their children. And besides, unlike us, you turned out to be beautiful. You can choose any woman you want.

  Good thing these words aren’t reaching anyone.

  I hope I’ll be able to wait another month, Yuli. I sincerely hope.

  Best,

  Alma Rosenblum,

  Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi

  14.

  I SAW GRANDPA changing before my eyes with every visit to the Senior Citizens’ Center. His potbelly gradually shrank and his back slightly straightened. He claimed that years of Grandma Miriam’s gefilte fish and tzimmes had turned him into a real warrior, he just hadn’t known it at the time. While most soldiers in his platoon enjoyed a variety of exemptions (like Moshe Levy, who didn’t have to pull guard duty for more than an hour at a stretch, or Alex Lieberman, stationed within three hundred meters from a bathroom), Grandpa finished his first foot drill without requiring any sick leave the following day. Even the hazings by the young commanders didn’t bother him. When they assigned him the worst guard duty shifts, late at night, or sent him to fetch “electricity powder” from the company supply room, he did it with a smile. He had even stopped talking about his death, the elaborate morbidities now replaced by anecdotes about Company Commander Waxman’s operational experience, and the surprise of smoked tuna during urban warfare week. Which made me understand that maybe you’re never too old to turn over a new leaf.

  Not once did Dad ask me to tell him about Grandpa, but when I did anyway, he listened attentively; he let out a small smile when he heard they picked Grandpa to be the signaler on the company march, and couldn’t suppress his anger when I told him they took away Grandpa’s Shabbat leave because he didn’t shave. And he even came to the induction ceremony, at which Grandpa took his oath; showed up with a white wide-brimmed hat and a pair of Alma’s old sunglasses and videotaped the whole thing, his hand trembling when Grandpa received his Golani badge. Grandpa himself didn’t seem too excited when he placed his hand on the Bible and pledged allegiance to the State of Israel. It was only on the way home, when we stopped for a falafel from Georgian’s, that Grandpa told me he was tired because he couldn’t fall asleep last night.

  “Well, it makes sense, the induction is a pretty exciting thing,” I told him, to which he announced it had nothing to do with that. “Today’s our anniversary,” he said, and didn’t elaborate.

  15.

  THE FIRST TIME I heard Grandpa swearing was when he called to tell me they were being sent to secure one of the settlements in the Valley, near the Jordanian border. They were just going to sit there, without even doing patrol duty. To me it was obvious they’d be assigned to one of those meaningless missions, that no one actually expected them to do anything serious. But Grandpa was shocked, didn’t see it coming. He dismissed Waxman’s explanations about how they didn’t have enough experience for an active mission on the Gaza front line, that in any case half the platoon had hearing aids so they couldn’t be anywhere near whistling mortar bombs. He told me over the phone that his entire platoon was a bunch of cowards that wanted nothing more than to go home to their Filipino caregivers on the weekends, and that tomorrow he was going to get his release form signed, leave the Geriatric Platoon and join a unit with real combat soldiers. Said he’d give anything to go down to Gaza and bump a terrorist or two, show that goddamn army what he was worth.

  “Believe me when I say you have no idea what you’re talking about,” I told him.

  “I know perfectly well what I’m talking about, and don’t you treat me like a child.”

  “But you sound like one,” I replied. “You think the army is a game?”

  “You think you can teach me something because you fought in Lebanon?” Grandpa said. “Because you saw a few bullets fly past your head? I was here in ’48, I know more about war than you ever will,” he announced, and hung up.

  I tried calling him back twice but he wouldn’t pick up. That night, Dad told me he had called him. Grandpa said they were already in Ro’i, a small moshav on the Jordanian border, a two-hour drive from anywhere that mattered. That they had unloaded their equipment and he had already been dispatched to guard duty, when he got caught reading Moshe Shamir’s He Walked Through the Fields, and Waxman took away his Shabbat leave once again.

  “We’ve got no choice,” Dad said. “We’re going to have to visit the wayward soldier.”

  From that point on, Dad was completely consumed with the preparations around the trip. He had bought three cookbooks, and each night I’d come home to find him at the stove. He used to cook quite often, but ever since Alma had left, Dad tried to avoid spending time in the kitchen, which remained Alma’s territory even after she was gone. He’d have lunch in a restaurant or café, and at night grab a yogurt from the fridge or a few almonds from the pantry, quickly darting out of the kitchen for any other room.

  Spending such long stretches of time in the spot that had once been hers made Dad start talking about her again. Not explicitly, but with offhand remarks that brought her back into the house (“Did you know we bought this blender
in France?” “She never liked garlic sauce.” “I still have to fix her coffeemaker.”).

  During that entire week, when I came home from work, he’d ask me to taste his daily concoction and rate it from one to ten. The spicy chraime fish got a five, the honey-glazed chicken a six, and the pasta with mushroom sauce a three. I suggested we just bring him takeout from a nice restaurant, explaining that it was commonly done nowadays, but Dad took offense and continued cooking. I’m not sure what he based his final decision on, but we ended up making our way to the outpost with two pots of Vietnamese chicken mixed with caramelized rice and stuffed grape leaves. The original recipe had called for Swiss chard, but neither of us knew exactly what that was. Dad drove and I held the pots tightly on my lap, having wrapped them first in plaid kitchen towels like he had asked me to. Every now and then, when we hit a red light, Dad lifted one of the lids and inhaled the fragrant steam with the earnestness of a child taking in the scent of the ocean.

  16.

  alman1964@gmail.com

  September 19, 2009, 01:54:09

  Subject: Re: Hi Yuli

  I visited the Taj Mahal yesterday. Can you believe I’ve been here three years and only yesterday saw it for the first time? So why didn’t I visit it before, you ask (not really)? I’m not sure. After all, planning trips to India was my favorite thing to do when I was a travel agent, and almost everyone who visits makes a beeline for the Taj. I knew everything there is to know about that place. And I mean everything. From the phone number of the best taxi driver in Agra to how to get into the compound for the local price. And suddenly yesterday, two Israelis walked into my office, mistaking it for a Chabad house. David and Tamar, a retired couple, incredibly sweet people. They only wanted to ask if I knew a decent restaurant in the area, and ended up staying for two hours. What did we talk about, you ask (but not really)? What didn’t we talk about! How best to get around India, my three years here, David’s service in the air force (he was a pilot!). At some point he mentioned they were both from Kibbutz Be’eri, and they were so delighted to hear that I was originally from Kibbutz Nahal Oz that they invited me to come with them to the Taj Mahal. At first I turned their invitation down, thinking they were just being polite, but then Tamar said there was no point arguing because they wouldn’t take no for an answer. And that they’d pick me up at 7:00 A.M. I can’t explain it, Yuli, but something about her tone, and that adamant hand gesture, suddenly reminded me of my mother. And I said yes, without even thinking. The kind of yes that leaves no room for a change of heart. They picked me up the following day (yesterday), and four hours later we were standing in front of the Taj Mahal. And the funniest thing is that I ended up giving them a three-hour tour, even though I’d never been there before! Crazy, huh? It was all from memory!

  On our way back, I saw in the rearview mirror that David was holding Tamar’s hand. They asked me if I’d always dreamed about living abroad, and I don’t know exactly why, but I found myself telling them about the fourth day of the Yom Kippur War, after they had told me my father was killed. How I ran up and down the entire kibbutz yelling that I was going to get away from this stinking country the first opportunity I got and move to Scandinavia. That in Scandinavia people didn’t die because the cold kept them safe like an icebox. Which is odd, Yuli, because I hadn’t thought about that day in years. I had completely forgotten about it. Forgotten all my promises. Because kids make a lot of promises that they don’t make good on. But during that ride from Agra to Delhi, all those memories suddenly resurfaced. And as I’m writing you this, I’m realizing that maybe my trip to India really did begin there, the day my father got killed. And that maybe, when I think about it, India is the closest I’ve ever been to a teenage rebellion. Because I never actually rebelled, you know? By the time I was ready to rebel against someone, both my parents were already dead. My rebellions were unsuccessful and short-lived. The day after I rebelled against the kibbutz and moved to Tel Aviv, I became a soldier; and a moment after I decided to rebel against the army, I met your father. Three weeks after my discharge I was already his wife, and nine months later, your mother. And once I became a mother, I knew my chance to rebel against the world was over. Because mothers aren’t allowed to rebel, right? At least that’s what I used to think. Today I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe because we tend to do things backward in our family. Look at your grandfather. He’s finally free of Miriam, and he goes and enlists in the army. And you, such a golden child, for the past two years you’re suddenly stuck with no direction in life. Actually, there’s only one person I know who’ll never rebel, and that’s your father. Because unlike people like us, who are a bit weaker, he’s always there. He’d never run off to India or enlist in Golani. I bet psychologists would say he’s coping with the situation better than all of us, but I think that’s bullshit. It’s not healthy for a person to just resign himself to the role the world has fated him with.

  I wanted to write you the moment I came back from the Taj. Because I needed to share all this with someone before I forgot. But you know, Yuli, now, writing about my trip to Agra, everything feels a bit strange. Not that you’re actually receiving these emails, and yet, it feels like you are supposed to be the one writing them. As if we have somehow traded places. As if I stole your trip. Which is silly, I know, but sometimes it feels as if there was only one seat left on that plane to India, and I stole it from you.

  I hope that thought never crossed your mind. I really do.

  Best,

  Alma Rosenblum,

  Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi

  17.

  AT THE ENTRANCE to the Ro’i settlement, we saw Shapiro next to the security booth in a bulletproof vest and a dinky old helmet. He was sitting on a white plastic chair, his eyes closed, basking in the last moments of shade. I honked at him. He almost fell off his chair. Then he yawned, stretched and got up (not without considerable effort), shuffled toward the car and stuck his head through the window.

  “You guys are allowed to sit during guard duty?” I asked.

  “What do you think? Almost everyone in the platoon has an exemption from standing,” he replied with a smile.

  “So shouldn’t you at least … like, be awake?”

  He took a crinkled piece of paper out of his pocket. “Authorization to nap,” he said, waving it proudly. “Ten minutes every hour. I’m the only one in the whole platoon who has it!”

  “What are you reading?” he asked and pointed at the book resting on the back seat.

  “The Myth of Sisyphus,” I replied. “Albert Camus.”

  “God, awfully boring, that one. Only a French fatty can turn a story worth a sentence and a half into a whole book.”

  Shapiro informed us that Grandpa had just finished guard duty on the tower, opened the gate, and suggested we wait for him in the parking spot in front of the administrative office. He glanced at the pots and added, “You should know you’ve got some serious competition. My granddaughter brought over some of her delicacies.”

  Right after Dad parked the car, we heard a shout.

  “Gourevitch!” a man hollered. “If you’re not here in thirty seconds I’m shooting you myself.”

  I recognized Grandpa’s voice immediately.

  The tower wasn’t a watchtower, but a water tower with “Let IDF kick ass and bust heads!” sprayed across its tank in black graffiti, next to “Eitan Tayeb is innocent!”

  When I got there, Gourevitch was just climbing up the stairs with his bulletproof vest in his hand. He almost slipped off every stair, and Grandpa kept yelling at him from above that he had better move his ass if he didn’t want to end up like Kastner. Once Gourevitch made it all the way up, almost unconscious from the effort, Grandpa nimbly bounded down the stairs. He hugged me and said that Gourevitch was such a newbie.

  We sat down on the grass near the parking lot, under the shade of a tree. Grandpa removed the rifle strapped across his chest and gave Dad a slap on the back. “What happened that yo
u decided to cook?” he asked, to which Dad quickly replied, “What happened that you decided to enlist?”

  They both smiled. Producing a black pepper mill and a bottle of chili powder, Dad said the recipe called for seasoning right before serving. He ladled a spoonful of the dish into a blue plastic bowl he had bought especially for the occasion.

  “What’s this?” Grandpa asked.

  “Vietnamese Chicken,” I replied.

  He sniffed it. “Say, they eat their chicken cold in Vietnam?”

  “We didn’t think that one through,” I replied, and Dad lowered his gaze.

  “Don’t worry,” Grandpa quickly blurted, “believe me, I’m so hungry I wouldn’t know the difference, but why don’t you serve the kid first, he still has some growing up to do.”

  I took a bite and immediately knew the chili’s punch was more than Grandpa’s palate could bear. But before I could warn him, he had shoveled a forkful into his mouth. He could barely chew. His face contorted and his grip tightened around his weapon from the exertion of swallowing. At the end of the brief skirmish between Grandpa and the Far East, Grandpa came out on top, but just barely.

  “Hey, this isn’t half bad,” he said, nearly gagging.

  Dad quickly tasted the dish. “I don’t get it,” he mumbled, “it was supposed to be sweet.”