Jerusalem Beach
Page 6
I remember when I told you I had read the paper. It was during Friday night dinner. Just the two of us. I couldn’t keep it in any longer, so I told you your teacher called. And that I read your paper. And I started telling you how proud I was of you, and that if you wanted, you could become a wonderful university lecturer. And you didn’t say a word, Yuli. I tried to read your expression, searching for some clue into your thoughts, but you finished eating and went to your room, and it took me a few days to realize you were angry at me, even though I couldn’t understand why. It’s not like I read a secret love letter, it was a civics paper. And about such an academic subject, so impersonal. But you must have understood even then what I only learned two years ago, when you were deployed to Lebanon. That wars are not a national issue. It was always a personal matter, perhaps more personal than anything else in this world.
Sometimes I tell myself that’s when I lost you—the moment I read your paper. But that isn’t the case. It isn’t that simple. I wish there was a single moment in time I could point to and say—there, that’s when I lost my child. But there is no such moment to cling to. You wouldn’t even give me that.
Best,
Alma Rosenblum,
Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi
22.
alman1964@gmail.com
November 1, 2009, 02:59:49
Subject: Re: Hi Yuli
Did you know I once bought a ticket home? The day Goldwasser and Regev, may they rest in peace, were abducted, before anyone knew that war was a war. I bought a ticket. Even packed a bag and drove to the airport. I honestly don’t know why I didn’t board the plane. Maybe I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to handle seeing with my own eyes that you were no longer mine. Because as long as I couldn’t see your face, I could at least keep pretending you’re mine, you know? It’s not much of an excuse, I know. Maybe you were right all along. Maybe some women were never meant to be mothers.
Best,
Alma Rosenblum,
Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi
23.
WE NEVER MADE it to the President’s Residence in Jerusalem.
I woke up early that morning, put on a white dress shirt, and gave myself a meticulous shave. After I finished getting ready, I went to check on Dad. He was lying in bed, curled under the blanket. He was still asleep. I woke him up and said we had to leave in fifteen minutes. He mumbled an apology, said he must have forgotten to set his alarm clock.
“Maybe you should go without me,” he suggested wearily, but I wasn’t about to let him get away with not coming.
“Enough. You can at least give him the respect of showing up at the ceremony.”
He heaved himself up in bed and stared at the floor.
“You’re right,” he said. He washed his face and put on his shoes, but persisted in his silent rebellion by refusing to wear anything elegant, settling for a simple gray T-shirt.
“I don’t get it. Aren’t you proud of him?” I asked as we walked out of the house. “Why are you being so oppositional?”
“It’s not that,” he said with a sigh. “Sometimes it’s just a bit too much, this whole thing.”
My phone rang. An unregistered number. “What’s up, bro?” asked a voice I couldn’t recognize. I put him on speakerphone.
“I’m fine, just, remind me, who is this?”
“Man, I forgot you’re such a pothead. It’s Waxman,” he said, and Dad grimaced.
“Listen, there’s a small hitch.”
“What kind of hitch?” I asked. Dad leaned into the phone.
“Look, there’s no good way to say this, but it looks like Neuerman … I mean, your grandpa, has Parkinson’s.”
Waxman said that when Grandpa had been admitted to the hospital, they ran a few routine tests. Four days ago some troubling results came back, so they brought him in again. He said Grandpa wasn’t being very cooperative. “I’m really no expert, but it doesn’t sound good.” He explained that in hindsight, the doctors thought the neck pain wasn’t brought on by Gourevitch falling on him, but were symptoms of the disease. Said it also explained the instances when Grandpa’s hands started trembling. That even he had noticed it himself, but thought it was just nerves.
Dad’s expression didn’t betray the slightest shred of emotion; it remained with the same frozen gaze fixed on the road, and I didn’t even know how to begin processing the news. Waxman further explained that according to the doctor he probably still had at least two good years ahead of him, but that we would need to meet with him to receive all the information.
“We could find him a new position in the unit for a few months,” he said, “maybe a quartermaster clerk or something. We’ll give him the option of an honorable discharge, but I assume you understand he can’t keep serving as a combat soldier in the platoon.”
“How did Grandpa react to this?” I asked, trying to imagine the look on his face when they gave him the news, but couldn’t.
Waxman didn’t reply.
“Well, how did he react?”
“Not great, that’s why I called you. I mean, at first he seemed pretty blasé about it. Said it was a bunch of baloney. I was sure he didn’t really care all that much, but the moment I told him we’d have to consider moving him to a new position … well, he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Dad asked.
“Disappeared.”
“What do you mean disappeared?” I asked, wondering how much worse this story could get.
Waxman had no idea where Grandpa was. He said no one knew. The only thing they knew for sure was that the Renault Kangoo had disappeared along with him, and that one of the Thai workers saw the car exiting the settlement at dawn.
“What about the soldier at the gate?”
“On a bathroom break,” Waxman relied.
“I don’t get it. You can’t head a unit without having a soldier go missing on you?” I asked. I wasn’t actually expecting an answer.
“Listen, bro, I know it sounds bad, but everything’s under control, really. We’ve got half the command on their feet right now, everyone’s looking for him,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, talking in that regimental commander’s tone. “He’s not the first soldier to go AWOL. I’m sure they’ll find him in a couple of hours, by threatening Gourevitch or something,” he said and laughed.
We didn’t.
“Really, you’ve got nothing to worry about. The moment the ceremony ends, I’ll be joining the search efforts myself.”
“You’ll be joining after the ceremony?”
“Yup, five minutes after it ends, I’m out of there. After all, he’s my soldier.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I yelled at him. “Your soldier has gone AWOL. How can you even think of going to the ceremony?”
“Listen, man, it’s just going to be a couple of hours,” he said defensively. “Hundreds of soldiers are looking for him as we speak, another one won’t make a difference,” Waxman said, and added in a condescending tone, “It’s the president, bro, I can’t just bail on him.”
“Are you for real? What’s up with you? I—” I said, and before I could finish the sentence, Dad took the phone and hung up.
“I’ve had enough of that moron,” he said.
I nodded in agreement. “I’m taking the next exit, we’re going to find him.”
I’m not even sure I said where I was taking us. We both knew where we should be searching.
“What a mess,” Dad mumbled. He shrank into himself, as if Waxman’s news had hit him belatedly. “God, what a mess.”
“We’ll work it out,” I told him. “We managed to survive Golani, we’ll survive this too.”
Dad cracked the window open, struggling to take in a little air. “I’m not so sure,” he said, “I’m really not so sure anymore.”
24.
THE DOOR WAS OPEN. A trail of army bootprints led us up the staircase. He was there, right where we thought he would be. Standing on
the roof with his back to us, approaching the ledge, his rifle slung over his shoulder and his shirt untucked. His brown beret lay unclaimed on the floor. He turned to us for a moment, then went back to studying the cars driving along Jabotinsky Street. Slowly, I stepped forward. Dad remained by the door to the roof, holding on to the handrail.
“Parkinson’s, they tell me,” he spoke with a tired voice. “Can you believe it? One moment you’re getting a commendation, and the next they’re telling you you should start thinking of one of those Filipino caregivers.”
“Waxman said they need to run a few more tests,” I said.
“Oh please,” he grumbled, turning to face me. “I may be old, but I’m no idiot. Can you believe this? I make this unit famous, and a moment later they want to get rid of me!” He laughed feebly. “It’s like discharging Ehud Barak right after the ’73 raid on Lebanon, or Kahalani after the Yom Kippur War. Can you imagine?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Well, can you?” he barked at me.
“No, actually I can’t.”
“Of course you can’t!” he yelled in an explosion of anger. “If it weren’t for me, Waxman and his miserable old schmucks would still be stuck in the Valley guarding mosquitoes. Unthinkable!” he exclaimed, his voice strangled with emotion. “To kick someone to the curb like that? So my hands shake a little, so what? Schneider doesn’t have scoliosis? Pinchas doesn’t have a catheter? Just like that, to toss someone away like a piece of trash? It’s unheard of!”
I wanted to say something soothing, comforting, but the words got stuck in my throat like a jammed M16. I looked at Dad, hoping he’d whip out his calculator or say something logical that would make sense of the situation. But Dad didn’t say a word. He just kept standing by the staircase, clutching the handrail, fighting for every breath of air, unable to hide his helplessness.
We stood there, the three Neuerman men, facing each other, not knowing what to do.
“Gourevitch told me he knows of a nice old folks’ home,” Grandpa said, lowering his voice just to raise it back up. “I’ll go to my grave before I move into an old folks’ home!” he yelled. “No way, forget it. Fat chance!”
“No one said anything about a retirement home,” I tried to clarify, but Grandpa was no longer listening.
“I’ll just go on another mission. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll march into Gaza alone if that’s what it takes.”
“It won’t help,” I hissed.
“It would help a great deal. Put that idiot Waxman in his place once and for all.”
“Enough already. Enough with that Waxman of yours,” I yelled at him. “Enough with going on a mission whenever something in your life goes wrong.”
“You don’t get to tell me how to live, you hear? No one does.”
“Go conquer China for all I care,” I said. “You’re burning through these years trying to escape them.”
“You have no idea—” he yelled and waved his weapon, then tripped, swayed unsteadily for a few moments and fell to his knees. I leaped forward and caught him with both hands a moment before his face hit the floor.
“Bring a chair!” I yelled to Dad who was hesitantly pacing toward us. “Come on, hurry up,” I called out and slid the weapon strap off Grandpa’s shoulder. Dad brought over a dirty plastic chair from across the roof.
“Hold his back,” I told Dad, who still seemed confused. We heaved him up onto the chair. Grandpa’s neck tilted sideward and his hands went limp. He could barely keep his eyes open.
“I’ve had enough,” he mumbled between garbled words.
“You can’t just give up,” I told him, supporting his neck so he wouldn’t hit his head against the backrest.
“An eighty-year-old man can do whatever he wants,” he declared with a feeble voice.
“You really can’t,” I replied. “You’re not allowed. Gourevitch would miss you too much.”
I think I saw a flicker of a smile, but I can’t say for sure.
* * *
We barely managed to get him down the stairs. His legs kept giving way. He was heavy, a lot heavier than he looked. I put him into bed, peeled off his uniform, and yanked off his boots. I covered him with a blanket while Dad looked at us from the corner of the room. Then I stood beside the bed, my gaze fixed on his chest, making sure he was breathing. Only after he started snoring did I allow myself a deep breath.
* * *
Dad and I pulled shifts looking after Grandpa, switching every three hours. One of us was always at his bedside, making sure he wouldn’t try to make a run for it or work himself into a heart attack. I don’t think we exchanged a single word that entire day. Grandpa didn’t get up even once, and seemed pretty relaxed for an old man who only a few hours ago had threatened a ground invasion into Gaza.
At about ten P.M. I finished my shift and came out into the living room. Dad was sitting in the white armchair, staring at the dark TV screen.
I took a glass of water from the kitchen and sat down beside him. Grandpa’s weapon lay on the table.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t, I mean, that moment, I just …”
“I didn’t know what to do either,” I said.
“You did, you were great,” he sighed. “This shouldn’t be your responsibility, Yuli.” He started rummaging through his pants pockets.
“What are you looking for?”
“Pills,” he replied. “I probably forgot them at home.”
“You? Mr. Organized?”
“I know, right?” he replied, still going through his pockets.
“Go get some sleep,” I told him.
“It’s my shift. You go sleep.”
“It’s okay, I’ll stay on a bit longer with Grandpa. I’m not tired.”
“Okay, so maybe just a short nap,” he conceded. “But wake me up in an hour, okay? I’ll come switch with you.”
“Sure,” I lied to him. “No problem.”
He slipped off his shoes, kicking them into the middle of the living room instead of placing them neatly side by side like he always did. Then he leaned back in the armchair, struggling to find a comfortable position. I wanted to suggest he move to the couch or something, but I kept quiet.
I went back to Grandpa’s room and sat down beside him. I leaned in and took a close look at all the wrinkles and spots webbing his face. I gently smoothed his white hair, with the furtive hope that a neat appearance would keep him safe. It didn’t really help. He no longer looked like an eighty-year-old Golanchik. He just looked like an old man. A very old man.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. I can’t say for sure whether I fell asleep or not.
What I can say is that I heard the gunshot.
25.
yulineuerman@gmail.com
November 6, 2009, 08:57:44
Subject: Update
Hey,
Dad passed away four days ago. The funeral was in Kfar Saba. The shivah is being held at Grandpa’s house.
I’ve moved into Grandpa’s for the time being, until things settle down.
You’re welcome to call,
Yuli
26.
alman1964@gmail.com
November 6, 2009, 09:52:37
Subject: Re: Update
You’re not picking up. I bought a ticket, I’ll be there tomorrow evening.
Best,
Alma Rosenblum,
Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi
27.
yulineuerman@gmail.com
November 6, 2009, 10:03:04
Subject: Re: Update
You don’t have to come.
Yuli
28.
alman1964@gmail.com
November 6, 2009, 10:06:21
Subject: Re: Update
I’m not asking you.
Best,
Alma Rosenblum,
Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi
29.
I WASN’T ACTUA
LLY reading The Myth of Sisyphus that day when we visited Grandpa in the Jordan Valley. I mean, I’d read it once, before I enlisted, but when I tried reading it again that evening, I just couldn’t. To be honest, since my army days I haven’t been reading much. Or at all, really. I try sometimes, but I just can’t seem to concentrate. After a few lines, the words start bouncing and blurring on the page and I get a headache and have to stop.
But it doesn’t matter, because you don’t really have to read the whole book to get it. Shapiro was right. Camus turned a story worth a sentence and a half into a whole book, and let’s face it, he gets his point across in the very first line. The rest of the book, like Shapiro put it, is just the babbling of a French fatty.
“There is only one really serious philosophical question,” he writes, “and that is suicide.”
That’s it. That’s the gist of it.
I think any normal person thinks about suicide at least once in his life. Not necessarily seriously, but at least superficially considers what would happen if he decided to end his life. The only person I know who never even thought about it once is Grandpa. Even though he never stopped talking about death, I am certain the idea of ending his own life never crossed his mind. He clung to life the way he had clung to Grandma Miriam, as if he never even knew that leaving of his own free will was an option.