Jerusalem Beach

by Iddo Gefen

  Dad, on the other hand, had considered the matter carefully. Apparently, like with everything else in his life, he thought it through, weighing the pros and cons, factoring in the various considerations and implications. Eventually, the last thing he ever did on this planet was depart from it the only way he knew how—not as an impulsive decision, but in a premeditated, carefully planned move.

  He had begun taking out life insurance policies a year and a half ago. As of now, I know of at least four different ones. I’m guessing a few more will pop up soon. I don’t know if back then he had already decided he was going to go through with it, or whether he just wanted to keep suicide as an option.

  It was only a few days after the funeral, as I was tidying up his study, that I started learning new things about him, all these little bits of information I never knew. It’s crazy how much you can learn about a person from a few forms. Especially about a person like Dad. Maybe that’s why he didn’t bother leaving a note. He probably knew there was enough information to explain everything.

  There were receipts from all the psychiatric treatments he had undergone. Dozens of prescriptions for the pills he’d taken over the years. According to the dates on the receipts, most of the treatments had taken place after Mom left, but not all. And some of the prescriptions for antidepressants were issued before I was even born. I also found insurance policies he had signed. I even saw my own signature on some of them, although I had no memory of signing them. Maybe it was when he made Grandpa sign those private health insurance forms before he enlisted. He knew I wouldn’t read them.

  He also kept meticulous records of his debts. Not that I hadn’t been aware of this, but I didn’t want to get too involved. He owed far more than I had imagined. A few million. Some to the banks, some to friends. The police investigator said there was also a good chance he had gotten entangled with loan sharks. That there were all these calculations that didn’t add up. Sums that appeared in one ledger but not in another. He said it was highly unlikely a person like Dad would suddenly be careless with his records, and that he probably settled his debts on the black market before he killed himself, so we’ll never really know what happened there.

  When the investigator told me that one of the motives behind his suicide was the insurance money, I told him there was no way. That Dad had told me himself life insurance companies wouldn’t pay death benefits if the person who took out the policy committed suicide. The investigator said that was only partially correct. The truth, like always, was in the fine print. Your family isn’t entitled to the funds if you take out insurance and kill yourself the very next day. The person has to be insured for at least a year for the money to be payable. But once that year is up, the family of the deceased is legally entitled to that money. Dad knew that. Of course he knew.

  “So that’s why he told me about it? So I wouldn’t suspect?” I asked the investigator, but he didn’t have the answer to that one.

  I like to think he had chosen that day—the day we dragged Grandpa off the roof—for a reason. That it, too, was a well-planned move. That there was a good enough reason behind his decision to leave us on such a shitty day. Grandpa thought it was because of the Tavor rifle. That he saw the opportunity and took it. But I think he’s wrong. Dad had enough ways and pills to end his life whenever he wanted. Maybe he had just tried holding on for as long as he could, but knew Grandpa’s illness was more than he could deal with. I guess that in his analytical mind, choosing suicide at that particular moment in time was simply the responsible thing to do. His way of ensuring he wouldn’t become a burden.

  And maybe there is no logical explanation. Maybe plans get messed up even for people like him.

  30.

  I WAS AWAKENED by a knock on the door. It was the fourth night of the shivah, almost midnight. Another knock. I got up and went to open the door. Shapiro was standing there in his crumpled service dress and a brown beret on his head. He saluted with his left hand and apologized for not coming earlier, said it was all because of that schmuck Waxman, who had taken away his Shabbat leave. He walked into the apartment, leaning on his cane, dragging his army boots across the floor. Avigail was standing behind him. Shapiro dropped his bag at the entrance to the living room and plopped himself onto the worn leather couch. “Oy gevalt,” he sighed and took a deep breath. “Listen to me, don’t ever get hip replacement surgery.”

  I made them coffee and the three of us sat down in the living room.

  “How are you?” Avigail asked me, placing her hand on top of mine. I imparted a few clichés, about how hard it was and how we were trying to pull through, and withdrew my hand.

  “You don’t have to say all that tired bullshit,” she said. “It’s okay if you’re not up to talking about it.”

  “Actually, I’m not.”

  Shapiro took a sip of his coffee.

  “This doesn’t have any sugar!” he croaked.

  “You’re not allowed any,” Avigail replied peacefully. “Say, did you even take your pills?”

  Shapiro didn’t answer.

  “Grandpa!” She said he was behaving like a child, then got up and went over to his duffel bag, took out a pillbox and a big plastic baggie. She handed him a few pills and a glass of water, took out rolling paper from her pocket, opened the baggie, and started rolling a joint.

  “What gives?” I asked in a huff. “This is totally inappropriate.”

  “It’s for me,” Shapiro said. “Medicinal. Top-notch stuff,” he announced proudly. “Honey, would you be so kind as to roll one for Yuli as well? He’s had a tough week.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said, waving my hands in anger to make it clear there was no way they were going to smoke pot in Grandpa’s house.

  “Come on, what do you care?” she said. “You’ve got every excuse.”

  “How are you even allowed to smoke pot?” I asked Shapiro. “You’re a soldier. In the army.”

  “Right,” he replied. “The first IDF soldier with a permit for medicinal weed!”

  “The family is awfully proud,” Avigail added with a smile.

  “Listen, this is not cool,” I said. “If Grandpa finds out you smoked in his house …”

  Avigail stopped rolling and looked somewhere past my shoulder. Shapiro turned his gaze to the same spot, his smile turning hesitant. For a moment, it seemed as if he was struggling to recognize the man in front of him. Grandpa was standing there in a white undershirt, long black pants and slippers, looking at us with a tired gaze.

  “You’re up?”

  He nodded, rooted to his spot. There were a few moments of silence.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “We came to visit your grandson,” Avigail replied. Shapiro kept studying Grandpa with a worried look.

  “I mean, what are you doing with that?” he said, pointing at the baggie.

  “Oh, that’s for my back pain,” Shapiro mumbled. “Can’t fall asleep without it. Want some?”

  “No,” he said. “And don’t smoke in here.”

  “Sorry,” Avigail said and quickly shoved it all back into her bag. Grandpa considered me for a moment, then looked at Shapiro. “You can do it upstairs,” he announced. “Where it won’t stink up the house.”

  Grandpa shuffled back to his room, and two minutes later reappeared with a plaid jacket. Without saying a word, he started up the stairs to the roof, the three of us promptly following him.

  We sat there in oppressive silence. Shapiro and Grandpa no longer looked like close friends, more like a couple of old fogies who happened to bump into each other in line at the Social Security office.

  “Got a light?” Shapiro asked. Avigail handed him a lighter and he lit the joint and took a deep drag. “Oy,” he said. “Oy, this is good.”

  “Give me the light,” Grandpa said and took a cigar out of his jacket pocket. He stared at it for a few moments, drew it to his nose and sniffed. Finally, he lit it, took a few deep drags, and surprisingly, didn’t cough even once.r />
  “What’s this about, Neuerman? A few days into civilian life and you’re already a hedonist? The politicians would be proud of you,” Shapiro said quietly, still unsure whether he was allowed to joke.

  “I was a hedonist in the army too,” Grandpa said. He told us that the day he had escaped from the base he not only stole the unit vehicle but also the cigars, the ones Waxman had bought in Cuba and wouldn’t stop bragging about.

  “I wanted something to remind me of the little shit,” he said.

  While Shapiro kept a straight face, Avigail couldn’t keep herself from laughing. Eventually Grandpa let out a smile too.

  “Neuerman, what do you say, don’t you think your grandson should try a little puff?”

  “He’s a big boy, he can do whatever he wants.”

  “I’ve never smoked anything in my life, and I’m not about to start now. You’re welcome to offer to your granddaughter instead.”

  “I don’t smoke either,” she said. “But it’s a shame you won’t give it a try. You should know it really helps people with post-trauma.”

  “And what does that have anything to do with me?” I asked, tensing.

  “Oh please, stop kidding yourself. You’re fucked up, Yuli. You know that perfectly well. Even now, it’s like you’re sitting here at someone else’s shivah.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked her. I looked at Grandpa and Shapiro, but they kept their eyes on the floor, avoiding me.

  “Don’t take it hard. Happens to the best of us,” she said, and once again put her hand on mine.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, riled. But I kept my hand beneath hers.

  “You should listen to her,” Shapiro said. “Girlie here is a med student.”

  I was starting to feel light-headed.

  “Drink some water and rest your head,” she said before I managed to figure out what I was feeling. She leaned my head on her shoulder and started brushing her fingers through my hair. I was hoping she wouldn’t stop.

  Shapiro told Grandpa they had a new game in the unit. Whenever Gourevitch fell asleep during guard duty, someone would sneak up on him from behind and rasp in his ear, “Neuerman’s coming!” He said Gourevitch jolted in fear every time. Grandpa laughed.

  After half an hour or so, Avigail announced it was time to get going, and I had to part with her soft body. Shapiro promised to get a few sick days and come visit again. Avigail just smiled without saying a word.

  * * *

  Grandpa and I stayed alone on the roof. He gazed at the high-rises of the diamond district, and I looked up at the sky, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

  “Nice girl, Shapiro’s granddaughter,” he said.

  “Yup,” I replied. “Nice.”

  “You know, once upon a time this roof had a full view of the sea.”

  A sinking heaviness took over me, slowly spreading throughout my body. My every muscle. Had Dad been there, he would have whispered in my ear that Grandpa was talking nonsense again. I just wanted to go back to sleep. Back to a place where I didn’t need to face reality.

  “Mom sent me an email saying she was on her way over,” I said.

  “When do you think she’ll be here?”

  “I’m guessing she’s already on the plane.”

  “You must be happy about it.”

  “If coming here for five minutes is what helps her feel like she’s being a decent human being, then whatever floats her boat.”

  “Come on, Yuli, enough. Give her a chance.”

  “You can’t give a chance to someone who’s never been there,” I said.

  Grandpa sighed. “Maybe there are things you don’t know,” he replied. “Things I don’t know either. You can’t judge her like that.”

  “So who can?” I asked. “Who’s allowed to judge her?”

  “I don’t know, Yuli, I honestly don’t.”

  We sat there silently for a few moments.

  “Are you angry at him?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “Are you?”

  “Very.”

  His eyes became red. He turned his gaze back to the high-rises.

  “Well, I guess I’m a little angry too,” he said, grimacing. “I mean, how, how can a person go kaput just like that? Decide all of a sudden to end his life?” he protested weakly. “I don’t even know if I’m angry. I just don’t understand.”

  “It’s pretty obvious to me.”

  “I know the debts weighed heavy on him, but …”

  “The debts were just an excuse.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The debts weren’t the reason.”

  Grandpa hesitated, as if wondering whether he really wanted to ask.

  “So why, Yuli? Why would a person do such a thing?”

  “Because he had enough,” I replied. “He was sick of it all. Tired of living. He was like Mom, thinking only of himself.”

  I saw how my words physically pained him. He regretted having asked.

  “Tell me, you actually believe that nonsense?”

  “What can I do,” I said. “It’s the truth.”

  “Enough, Yuli. Enough. How can you even say such a thing?” he said in a stifled voice. “Your dad had debts. He needed—”

  “We would have managed. You know perfectly well we would have. It was just the easy way out.”

  Grandpa put his hand on his forehead and shook his head. “You don’t understand, Yuli. You’re a smart boy, but there are things you just don’t understand.”

  My dizziness only got worse. I tried closing my eyes, but it didn’t help.

  “You did smoke a cigarette once,” Grandpa said, “I know you did.”

  “Do I look like a smoker?” I asked him. “The smell alone gives me a headache.”

  “You tried it at least once, I know that much.”

  “You caught me,” I said. “Lucky guess.”

  Grandpa leaned in closer.

  “It’s no guess,” he said. “Your dad told me.”

  I looked out at the sky. The noise of the cars down on the street was driving me crazy.

  “How could he have told you, he didn’t even know about it. It was in the army.”

  “I’m telling you he knew, Yuli.” His words were strained. “He saw it with his own eyes.”

  Two cars started honking down below. The noise was unbearable.

  “Grandpa, cut the crap, okay? It’s not cool.”

  “It was the night you came back from Lebanon, Yuli. I know.”

  I jumped up from my chair. I thought I was becoming paranoid. That I was starting to hear things.

  “He was there. He drove up north two days after the war broke out. He rented a room at some kibbutz there.”

  “You’ve really lost your marbles, huh?” I growled. “Enough, I don’t want to hear any more of this bullshit. And it isn’t like you to pull stupid pranks on me. Leave me alone now.”

  “It’s the God’s honest truth, Yuli. He was up north the entire time,” he said, his voice strangled. “I’m telling you. I talked to him on the phone every day.” He asked me if I remembered how a group of civilians was waiting to cheer us in the assembly area the day we came out of Lebanon.

  “No,” I said, even though that wasn’t entirely true. I did have a vague memory of a few people showing up there with small charcoal grills and Israeli flags. They threw a big barbecue for the whole unit.

  “There were a lot of civilians there, Yuli. Your dad was one of them.”

  “No way,” I said. “There’s just no way.”

  “I’m telling you,” Grandpa stuttered with a choked-up voice. “He told me everything, said he stood at a distance, but he spotted you, all right. He saw you sitting there alone, far from the rest of your unit, smoking a cigarette. He said it pained him to see you like that.”

  “Enough already!” I yelled at him. “Enough with the lies. Enough!”

  Grandpa’s last sentence was more than I could bear. I ke
pt screaming at him that it couldn’t be true, that it just made no sense. I sat back down in the chair, my legs shaking. The dizziness was driving me crazy. I couldn’t think straight. I felt how everything was crashing into me. Grandpa got up and approached me, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “Then why didn’t he tell me about it?” I asked. “Even in passing? He had two years to tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” Grandpa replied. “To tell you the truth, I’ve asked myself the same question more than once.”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “Driving the entire way there without telling me,” I hissed. “It’s so like him.”

  * * *

  We started dragging ourselves down the stairs, holding on to each other, saying that maybe the two of us ought to consider a career in nursing. I collapsed onto the couch.

  Grandpa went to his room, brought a blanket, and covered me up. “So maybe only I should consider a career in nursing,” he said, and put his hand on my head. “My Yulinka.”

  I opened my eyes and saw him looking at me, his eyes full of pity.

  “It was on your bucket list,” I told him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “The cigar,” I said. “It was on your list.”

  He smiled. Then he got up and turned off the light.

  I closed my eyes and remembered. How I sat there on a rock. How I smoked the cigarette the deputy company sergeant major had brought me. He knew I didn’t smoke, but said that at times like these, it didn’t really count. I remembered looking at the civilians standing outside the assembly area. At Dad, who stood there with his fanny pack like some sad weirdo, right behind the guy fanning the grill. It looked like he was trying to help him, but he knocked over a plateful of kebabs, doing more harm than good. I remember seeing his face, blurring in the white smoke.

  * * *

  I knew it wasn’t a real memory. But at that moment, it made do.

  Exit

  NEXT TO A RED HILL in the desert, our only daughter wandered and disappeared into the thicket of her dreams, leaving us blind—as we heard the thud of her fall without knowing in which direction to turn.