The Critical Offer

by Yitzhak Nir

  She drank some more water and observed the white clouds floating slowly and indifferently through the sky outside the window. Then she spat out: “Dismissed!!” as if she was still the thirty-two-year-old commander of the “Bahad 12”, and no longer the frightened young girl who had survived the 1974 terrorist attack on her school in the Galilee town of Ma’alot.

  Later on in her office, with the windows wide open, she lit a cigarette.

  “54 Purple”

  In the road leading down Highway 1, on the way back from the meeting in Jerusalem, Gershon began musing about his next move: how would he find the answer the prime minister expected, and when?

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Shauli,” he looked into the rear-view mirror to catch the driver’s eye.

  “There’s a serious problem with the vehicle.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The auto-drive isn’t working. There’s no autonomous automatic drive or independent navigation system.”

  “You spoiled child! In the old days we had to find our way to all the Arab air bases with only a compass, a map and a stopwatch, and you get excited about driving home manually”?!

  “Sorry, sir, I just reported it… So, are we, sort of, BTN?” He glanced at him in the mirror.

  “What?”

  “BTN, sir, back to normal.”

  “When have we ever been normal, Shauli? So there’s nowhere to go back to. I’ve said it before: we’re a country under construction. And speak to me properly, without all those ‘sort-ofs’ of yours.”

  “When will they replace this wreck anyway? It’s already done two hundred thousand miles. It’s beginning to break down…”

  “Only when you stop smoking.”

  “What’s the connection, sir?” Shauli asked, his eyes widening in surprise in the mirror.

  “Because in the Chinese-made electric new Tesla IL model, which we’ll get with God’s help after all the government and army functionaries get theirs, there aren’t any ashtrays…”

  “And no need for a driver, either…” smiled Shauli.

  The three of them laughed. Afterwards they all fell silent.

  He felt that for the time being he had won points in Jerusalem over his adversaries in the high command. He observed the ancient abandoned armored cars lying by the side of the road leading from the capital to the low plains. He began humming the melody of “Bab-el-Wad” (The Valley Gate), joining the old wartime’ singer, Yaffa Yarkony, in his imagination. Unconsciously his thoughts strayed back to Ben-Ami and his unfinished painting: The swan with spread wings hovering over a stormy sea screaming mutely, an arrow puncturing his wing and bleak storm clouds are closing in on the horizon. He remembered a man’s hand in the foreground of the painting clutching a bow with a loosened string. Again he recalled the bird’s beak distorted with pain and its eye opened wide with terror at its impending end – a moment of fatal destruction that was frozen on the large canvas for eternity.

  …And when, for ’heaven’s sake, will anything really change in this country, so that we can finally end this eternal Sisyphean struggle…? He silently muttered to himself, harking back to the ancient question posed by the Erez group’s educator back then:

  “Will we live on our swords forever?” He had hurled at them fifty-five years ago, and “Until when will we live on our spear’s tips?!” he had thundered, paraphrasing the biblical text.

  One doesn’t hear Hebrew like that anymore… he smiled to himself. And what, for ’heaven’s sake, really has changed since then? And what is my responsibility after such a long time, if not to continue clutching sword and spear and wielding them...”

  His brain reverted back to the discussion at the prime minister’s office about creating the anti-missile, high-powered, gas laser, Skyguard: The matter of using force will have to be delayed for the time being, but not for long. But Skyguard must be developed as soon as possible. We’ve wasted too much time already - The existing situation must not be maintained, the air force is liable to be grounded because of missile attacks like we did to them with bombs from our planes, in the Six-Day War. We must enable our air force and country a quick recovery. A massive, missile offensive, together with Skyguard, is the solution to this palpable threat - being both economical and having endless possibilities - Well, okay, I must convince my friends in the IDF and the IAF. After all, what are friends for?

  Satisfied that he had successfully managed to complete the thought, he said: “Shauli, I’m going to take a short nap. Look after Guy and drive smoothly, without any sudden braking!”

  He spread the pillow on the back seat, gave himself over to the gentle rocking of the car, and fell asleep.

  Passing Ben-Gurion Airport, he opened one eye and dialed his friend, Professor Marwan Sultani, on his mobile.

  “Hello, L-4 L-5! What can I do for the gentleman’s back today?” Marwan Sultani laughed.

  “Doctor, in three days’ time - on Saturday - could you come and visit me? A few other friends will be arriving a bit later. We’ll drink beer and have a chat. Of course you can console yourself with coffee, if Islamic law still doesn’t allow alcohol…”

  “Don’t worry, Gershon, I’ll be there. With or without my wife?”

  “Without.”

  “Is it important? I have a lot of patients due to the recent suicide bombing.”

  “It’s very important.”

  “Okay. I get it. Salamat, Gershon. Bye!

  “See you, Doc!” He closed the phone.

  “Sir, can I interrupt?” Shauli turned to him from the wheel.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “While you were in the meeting, Dahlia sent me all the details you requested.”

  “Which details?” He tried to remember.

  “About the funeral and the Shivah. The seven days of mourning for Professor Ophira Something, who was killed yesterday in the terrorist attack...” he replied, handing him a sealed envelope.

  Gershon opened it slowly, pulled out a small card on which “Prime Minister” and the ‘menorah’ symbol were engraved. He stared at it for a long time, trying to remember where the cemetery was. He found it difficult to concentrate. Sadness at her loss rose up in him again:...Ophira Zuriel, my roommate in eleventh grade, when we still believed that the world was judged for the better. Who would have believed it...this bloody Gordian knot must be untied… Where’s Alexander the Great when we need him so badly..?

  * * *

  A hot easterly wind was blowing in the month of May 1977. For four years Israel had been licking its wounds in the aftermath of the Yom Kippur War. Rabin, Peres and Hanan Porath were celebrating two years of settlement in the West Bank; the legendary TV news anchor was declaring: “Ladies and Gentlemen - Ma-ha-pach!!!” Turnaround!!! When Menachem Begin won the general elections. And the old Labor Party leader, Yitzhak Ben-Aharon, was demanding: “The people are wrong; the people should be replaced!”

  The paratroopers’ company from the 890th Brigade had begun their long-anticipated quarterly leave. He and his friends thronged to Bet-Lid Junction, which retained the name of the former Arab village. Neveh-Tirzah, the women’s prison, once a Palestinian terrorist’s jail - towered above them.

  In their ironed dress uniforms, reddish paratroopers’ boots and red berets, they waited, sweating, tired and impatient, for lifts that would bring them closer to home. The bus had passed by long ago and there was not another one in sight. The Sabbath was rapidly approaching.

  Gershon had been progressing slowly along the road for three hours, his knapsack on his back and his M-16 rifle on his shoulder, until he finally arrived at Giv’on.

  He made his way quickly to his room in the old hut near the laundry, gathered up his dirty uniforms and underwear and threw them into the public laundry bin. The number “54” was embroidered in purple on their collars and waistbands; the same nu
mber appeared on his cubbyhole in the clothing store, where they would be returned to him washed, but not ironed...

  He took a nap until seven in the evening. Then he showered and shaved in the public showers, put on a white shirt, khaki shorts and sandals.

  It was the eve of Israel’s 30th Independence Day.

  At nine in the evening he found himself on the wide verandah of the old dining room watching a War of Independence presentation enacted by the twelfth grade class. He scanned the audience for beautiful Ayelet, hoping that the paratrooper’s uniform in which he had arrived and would wear upon his return - might finally melt her indifference to him, once and for all.

  He felt bored and in a bleak mood and thought about returning to his bed, when someone behind him covered his eyes with fragrant hands. He felt a light breath on the back of his neck and an unfamiliar scent filled his nostrils.

  “Perfume?!” He waited a few moments, both surprised and pleased. Then he slowly grasped the unfamiliar hands. Their touch was delicate, as was the joyous laughter that sounded behind him. He gently removed the hands and when he turned around, was surprised to find Ophira Zuriel, the roommate of his youth.

  “Hey, Ophira! What are you doing here? I heard you had remained on your base...”

  “Looking for you. They said you were on quarterly leave, so I decided the IDF would manage without me for one Saturday and I came to find you!”

  “Well, yeah...” he replied shyly. “After all, we’re both from Erez…” he said hesitantly. “So, you found me… Should we go inside?

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t look very exciting.”

  “I don’t think so either.”

  He had never dared to approach her in the room they shared in the old hut. She had become more attractive as she grew up, and the prettier she got, the less he dared to speak to her. Then he had enlisted. Her lovely, desirable body had faded away from his memory and his frustration had centered on beautiful Ayelet and the heart murmur that had prevented him from becoming a pilot.

  “Come to my room. You must be very hungry. We’ll have a bite, drink some coffee and talk about the army. Do you still smoke?”

  “Not so much. But something to eat and a cup of coffee sound like a good idea.”

  When they entered her room, she lit a reading lamp with an orange shade.

  “Do you like The Platters?

  “Very much. You know, they play them in the evening at our refreshment stand. When they don’t wear us out with combat trainings, I enjoy listening to them.”

  Gershon sat on her bed, surveying her room in the soft glow of the reading lamp.

  “What music do you like best, Gersh? I bought a record player and I’ve got a few records.”

  “Everything, but I think maybe ‘The Great Pretender.’”

  She bent over the stack of records next to the turntable and he tried to catch a glimpse down her neckline of her free, full breasts in the soft light, this time without any attempt at concealment.

  “So if you’ve finished your coffee, let’s dance to their romantic sound.”

  “But I don’t know how to dance, Ophira, apart from folk dancing, like the Israeli hora. I’ve never tried ballroom dancing and I haven’t got anybody to do it with.”

  “Come on, Gershon, you kibbutznik! Don’t they teach you ballroom dancing in the paratroopers? Take off your sandals!” she commanded without waiting for an answer.

  “Yes, ma’am! Sir!” He smiled bashfully.

  She turned off the lamp and deftly placed his hands, one on her back and the other on her shoulder, and began guiding his feet with gentle determination. Since he was gifted with a good sense of rhythm, he soon stopped stepping on her bare feet and they began swaying in unison, in the reddish light that emanated from the turntable, to the tones of “Pretending that you’re still around” almost without moving. She delicately lowered his second hand to her waist and then both hands down to her buttocks.

  For a long while they swayed like that, pressing against one another, his hands on her bottom and hers around his neck. Her lips sought his naturally enough, but startling him. Her tongue was hot and demanding. He was surprised to feel his organ swelling, without his being able to stop it.

  Ophira began lightly nipping at his neck with her mouth. The scent of her hair delighted him. She pressed against his groin and they swayed together in an embrace. While smoke got in the eyes from an anonymous girl somewhere in America, she gathered his hands from her bottom and placed them on her breasts. Gershon caressed them absently, feeling them harden under her blouse.

  “Not like that. Inside, Gersh! My handsome young hunk…”

  The soft firm touch of her breasts aroused in him a pleasure that verged on pain. He had never felt like that before. He felt his hard organ demanding its rights and pushing between her legs that were still hiding under her skirt.

  “Gershon, quickly… Take my blouse off!” she murmured as she began undoing his fly buttons. In no time his erect dick broke free - as if it had a life of its own. Gershon blessed the darkness for hiding his fear and embarrassment.

  She rapidly freed herself from her skirt and blouse and crouched on her knees, gathering him in between her lips.

  The pleasure was too strong to bear: with two deep groans, his hands stroking her hair and her ears, he burst forth. All at once he felt relief, but also unbelievable shame.

  Ophira did not retreat. She carefully licked her lips, removed his shirt and shorts and led him to her bed.

  “Cigarette, soldier? My cute young hunk…” she drew towards him, naked.

  “Yes,” he answered, still overcome with embarrassment.

  “Jerusalem of Gold” could be heard wafting from the direction of the dining room.

  “Are you a virgin, Gersh?”

  “Hmm, not exactly… I apologize for what happened, Ophira.”

  “Nonsense, pretty boy. Don’t worry. You won’t be a virgin when I’m done with you.”

  “The Great Pretender” was still playing softly in the background, and then stopped.

  After about half an hour of silence in the room, he felt her hand stroking his back and buttocks and his organ sprang to life.

  Later on, at one in the morning, he began getting dressed, intending to return to his room at the other end of the kibbutz. He kissed her lightly on the mouth and said: “Thanks, Ophira.”

  She opened her large green eyes and observed him for a few moments in the darkened room. Then she said quietly:

  “Never, Gershon, should you thank a woman who desired you…”

  * * *

  When he finally spread out on the green couch in his workroom at home, where he preferred to watch television and occasionally doze off, his thoughts returned to Ophira before dropping off to sleep: How frustrating and tragic that my first lover is also the first of the Erez group to pay the price of the conflict, with her life...

  Bone Glue

  February 28th, 2025

  “Gershon, you look tired and worried. Maybe you should take a little nap until the eight o’clock news? I’ve lit the Sabbath candles,” said Dahlia when he arrived at the Green Marom neighborhood where he lived.

  Another endless day had passed at Mossad headquarter. Gershon felt exhausted, mainly mentally. His lower back pain didn’t make it any easier, nor did his anxiety-ridden thoughts about retirement.

  “This evening you’ll eat a light dairy meal with Shauli and Guy. I didn’t have time for more than that. Don’t forget that at noon tomorrow you’ve invited friends for beer on your back lawn: Benny Yungerman from Ariel, Adam Ben-Ami, back from one of his sea voyages, and Professor Daniel Safran. This time - without wives, children or grandchildren, only you and them, as you requested.” she continued without waiting for a reply: “Maybe only the professor’s Dachshund. He doesn’t go anywhere without her…”

>   “Okay, Dahlia. Thanks for everything. Go home already. The week has ended and you also deserve a rest. You should know that I’ve also invited Professor Marwan Sultani for ten-thirty a.m., before the others - only due to my back pain and because I haven’t practiced my Arabic for a long time.” He smiled faintly.

  “Why are you telling me this when I’m already out the door? So now you arrange meetings for yourself?” she replied, offended.

  “Enough, Dahlia. You know that I love you. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up if they say anything important on one of the networks or if the prime minister suddenly decides to address the nation.” He yawned, removing his shirt and shoes and disappearing barefoot into the modest workroom. There he stretched out heavily on his green sofa in an attempt to ease the pain in his back.

  “Right, Gershon, I can see that you really don’t need me. Shabbat shalom! Have a good Sabbath, sir!” she raised her voice. “And if you really need anything, you know whom to turn to. I don’t really have much to do at home,” she ended, still insulted.

  “And do me a favor, Dahlia!” he shouted at her from the depths of the workroom, “as you leave, remind Shauli and Guy about Professor Safran and Benny Yungerman and describe them. They’ve never been here before. Of course they’ve both known Adam for many years.”