To Be An Israeli: The Fourth Book in the All My Love, Detrick series

by Roberta Kagan

  The Six-Day War in Israel played out on television sets all over America. Janice could not help but wonder if Elan had survived. Strangely, she’d once believed she loved him, but now watching the war in Israel on television, she was glad to be far away. She had no desire to go back, ever. She watched in horror as the bombing continued. She could have been there, could have been killed. What was she thinking? What had once seemed noble and romantic in Elan now seemed overwhelming, horrific, and even annoying.

  When she’d first met Elan, she was swept in by his sexy, strong body, determined mind and passion for his country. But when he told her in no uncertain terms that he would put his country before anyone or anything, she hadn’t really understood him or for that matter, believed him. Janice was a romantic, and she was sure that he would fall so deeply in love with her that she would come first in his life, before anyone or anything else.

  When he walked out on her in that hotel room, she suddenly realized that he meant what he said about his love for Israel, and like a light switch, her feelings had turned off. Well, maybe not turned off, maybe turned from love to hate. To Janice, a man’s family—his wife and unborn child, should be more important to him than an ideal. Who would want a man like Elan? Certainly not me, she thought. Not anymore, anyway.

  It was great to be able to order cheeseburgers and pizza with cheese and sausage. She didn’t realize how much she missed them. Her family in America didn’t keep kosher and only attended temple on high holy days. God forbid, she would have eaten meat and cheese at the same meal in Israel. Her mother-in-law might have dropped dead on the spot. Janice laughed to herself at the thought. Jerusha, that terrible woman… And Janice certainly didn’t miss the disgusting black fish that her mother-in-law insisted upon boiling until the skin was so loose that it hung from the flesh. Just the thought of it made her nauseous. She’d had her fill of hummus, shawarma, and falafel. If she never had another bite of an Israeli salad, it would be too soon.

  And with this pregnancy, it seemed as if time had almost come to a stop. She felt as if she might be pregnant forever. The swelling of her body appalled her. If only she could just leave everything about Elan in her past, including this child.

  In the divorce papers, the Lichtensteins offered Elan ten thousand dollars to divorce Janice without any problems. Janice and her parents had discussed the situation of her coming child, and they were considering putting the baby up for adoption when it was born. It would be better for Janice. She could go back to school without anything holding her back. When she met someone new, she would not have to explain or even tell him anything about her time in Israel or her previous marriage.

  Janice agreed to this arrangement. It all sounded perfect. All she had to do was get through the pregnancy, and then she would be free to start over. Now that her belly was big, she decided to stay inside. It was best that no one ever knew that she’d had a baby. It would be hell to remain a prisoner in the house, but why give anyone food for gossip.

  CHAPTER 43

  Israel’s speedy and miraculous victory stunned the world. For Elan Amsel, it restored the pride and confidence in himself that he’d lost somewhere along the way. Elan sat in a bar celebrating Israel’s triumph. He toasted loudly and joyfully as he drank beer after beer with his fellow pilots.

  The door of the tavern closed and a dejected SGT Benjamin Siemion walked up to the bar to get a drink to fortify himself against the last bit of today’s sorrow. The tavern was full of soldiers and citizens celebrating Israel’s miraculous victory. Stories were being told, and laughter filled the air.

  The bartender approached SGT Siemion, wiping the counter with a cloth as he approached. “What’ll you have, soldier?”

  “Screwdriver.”

  “One screwdriver coming up.”

  Elan took notice of the man and slid over beside him. He pulled out a ten-shekel note and said to the bartender, “I got it.”

  “Thank you,” the man said. “You a pilot?”

  “Yes, CPT Elan Amsel of the 101st Squadron.”

  “Israel is proud of all of you pilots.”

  “Did you see combat?”

  “No.” He took a drink and looked at Elan. Elan could see tears forming in his eyes. “In my office, they refer to me as the ‘Angel of Death.’ I get to tell the widows and children that their husbands and fathers are not coming home. I broke twelve widow’s hearts today, and I have one more before I can go home to my wife and kids.” Elan felt sorry for the man and what had to be the war’s toughest job. He paid the bartender for the man’s next drink.

  “Give me the paper. I’ll go do it. Go home and hug your wife and kids.”

  “It is not allowed,” but I thank you.

  “Why is it not allowed? I am IDF, and so are you. What does it matter which soldier comes to the house to bear the bad news? Give me the paper and I will do it. Today is the day of celebration for Israel. You go home and tell your family that Israel has defeated her enemies. I’ll tell this last widow the bad news.”

  SGT Siemion thoughtfully considered and retrieved the paper from his pocket with one last name on it and slipped it into Elan’s hand. “God bless you,” he said, finished his drink and headed for home.

  Elan unfolded the paper in his hand and stared. Twelve names were crossed through, leaving only one at the bottom of the page—Mendel Zaltstein.

  CHAPTER 44

  Katja was picking at the chipped pink polish that remained like broken glass in clusters and specks on her fingernails. It was hard to believe that only a week ago she was at a beauty salon carefully choosing this color. How silly it all seemed now. How important it had been to her then that her nail color complemented the dress she planned to wear to the Zilberman show.

  She looked out the window trying desperately to hold back the terror in her heart that made her want to scream. Ima and Zofia slept. Katja began aggressively tearing the chips of polish off with her thumbnail. She wanted to hurt, to feel physical pain, anything to obliterate this terrible fear that gripped her. Mendel, God, what would she do if something happened to him? He had been there with her for as long as she could remember, first as a friend, later as a husband, lover, and father of her child. All she could think of was Mendel.

  Ima had left one of her blankets on the floor. It was a knitted blanket that Zofia had made for her. The blanket was white with ducks made of yellow cotton sewn on the front. Katja picked up the blanket and held it close. Her heart ached, and she began to cry into the comfort of the soft yarn. Oh, Mendel. If only she could see him, talk to him. She tried to reason that at least he’d served in the IDF, so he’d been trained. But Katja knew Mendel, and she knew that he didn’t have the disposition to be a soldier. He was too gentle, too sensitive. That was what scared her. Her breath was ragged as she tried helplessly to control her fears. Perhaps, she prayed, Mendel had been given office work. Maybe he’d been spared actual combat. But Katja knew better. She knew what it meant to be an Israeli.

  It had been four days since she’d eaten anything, and the last food she’d tried to eat had stuck in her throat. The man on the radio said that the war was over. Israel won. In six days, Israel had been victorious. That was good news, but she was still so shaken because she had not heard anything from Mendel. Katja had a terrible sensation of being disconnected from him as if she knew somewhere inside of her that something wasn’t right. Her mother, Zofia, told her to relax, that it was just her nerves, but Katja couldn’t stop the screams of terror that were silent to the rest of the world but constant in her own head.

  Ima awakened before Zofia. For the last six days, Ima had been sleeping in the bed with her grandmother.

  Katja heard Ima babbling, and she knew that Ima was waking her grandmother. Katja decided to take Ima out of the bedroom so that Zofia could get a little extra rest since she had not been sleeping much, either. Katja placed the baby blanket she’d been clutching on the coffee table and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. But it wa
s too late, Zofia was already awake. She heard Zofia’s voice softly whispering to Ima. Katja sunk back into the chair. It made her smile to hear Zofia and Ima together. It seemed Ima was the only thing that could still make her smile.

  Zofia came out of the bedroom holding Ima’s hand.

  “I hoped you were resting,” Zofia said, her face still swollen with sleep. Katja noticed that puffy circles had formed around her mother’s eyes. She knew that as much as Zofia tried to comfort her, she was worried, too.

  “Mama!” Ima said, hugging Katja.

  “I want the cereal with the chocolate today.”

  “Yes, my love, the cereal with the chocolate,” Zofia repeated, walking toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll get it, Mom,” Katja said.

  “It’s all right. Sit. I’ll take care of Ima,” Zofia said, mustering a small smile.

  Zofia took a glass bowl down from the cabinet and filled it with Ima’s favorite cereal and milk then began to boil water for instant coffee for Katja and herself.

  There was a knock on the door, and Katja jumped. Her heart leaped into her throat. It could be Mendel. She wished it was Mendel. But something inside told her… She saw the look of panic on Zofia’s face. Before the door was even open, they both knew. They both felt the coming disaster like a mudslide in the pit of their stomachs.

  “I’ll get it,” Zofia said.

  “Elan? What are you doing here?” Zofia did not even try to contain the disgust and shock in her voice.

  “I have to see Katja…I have something…”

  “This is a bad time, Elan. Go away, please…”

  “I have to tell her something.”

  Katja came to the door, still dressed in her terry cloth robe, her hair disheveled. “What do you want, Elan?”

  “Katja, I’m sorry to have to bring you this news.” He cleared his throat and looked at her. She could see the pity in his eyes. “I am truly sorry. Mendel was killed in battle.”

  Both of Katja’s hands flew to her face. Even though, in her soul, she’d already known, hearing the words spoken hit her so hard that she lost her breath. She covered her mouth with her fists. It all felt like a dream, a terrible dream, and a nightmare. She shook her head. “No…no…”

  Zofia put her arms around Katja. Katja began to scream. Ima saw her mother screaming, and she began to cry, too. The child ran over and pulled at Zofia’s nightgown.

  “Up, Bubbe…pick me up.”

  But Zofia was holding Katja. Ima kept pulling at Zofia and crying.

  “Let me help you. I’ll make all the arrangements,” Elan said. “You need not worry about anything. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Zofia glared at him.

  “I don’t want anything from you in return. We are old friends. I just want to be here for you, to help you, to make things right. I treated you badly. Let me do this to make it up to you.”

  Katja was too weak to resist. She left him standing in the open doorway and ran to the bathroom and vomited.

  CHAPTER 45

  Katja had passed out, and when she came to, she heard the sound of Ima crying and Elan on the phone with the Katja’s family doctor telling him to come immediately. Elan had considered carrying her to bed, but one icy glance from Zofia changed his destination to the couch in the living room.

  Zofia informed Elan that Katja had not eaten in four days and was not sleeping much, either. Doctor Ben-Zvi arrived twenty minutes later. Elan took him aside and advised that she was not eating or sleeping and fainted when she heard the news of her husband’s death.

  The doctor took out his penlight and stethoscope. He examined her eyes, listened to her heart, and checked her pulse with gentle, knowing hands. Then he exhaled and looked at her and spoke tenderly to her. “Mrs. Zaltstein, all Israel shares in your loss. You husband was an honorable and good man.” He glanced at Elan and Zofia. “See to it that she has a bowl of broth, and she takes two of these pills afterward,” he said, handing the bottle of pills to her mother. Here is my card. Call me anytime. He patted Katja’s hand, “Shalom, my dear,” and with that, he arose and left.

  Zofia quickly moved to make the broth, and Elan was now feeling out of place. Ima climbed up on the couch and wrapped her arms around her mother, and they both cried some more. Zofia brought the bowl of broth and a spoon and set it on the coffee table next to the couch and knelt beside Zofia.

  “It’s all right,” Zofia was whispering, “shh… It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right, Mama, it will never be all right again.”

  “Life goes on, my precious sunshine. I know how hard this is. I’ve lost many people whom I loved. I know heartbreak, and I’m no stranger to loss and tragedy. But you have to go on for Ima,” Zofia said. “Ima, please help Bubbe feed your mama some soup.”

  The child nodded and slid over to give Zofia access to spoon-feed the soup to Katja. “Eat, my sunshine. Do it for Ima. I had to make a decision once to live for my child’s sake. You must decide that right now.”

  Katja nodded, and Zofia tenderly spooned in the bowl of soup into her mouth then fetched a glass of water and two of the sleeping pills. “The doctor said to take these,” and Katja complied.

  In the living room, Elan was on the phone making funeral arrangements and notifying friends and family. The body would arrive later that afternoon. The burial would take place two days later. Zofia gave Elan the name of the rabbi who had married Katja and Mendel. She asked that Elan request that this rabbi speak at the funeral. Next, Elan telephoned the kibbutz and informed the member who answered the phone about Mendel’s passing and the funeral. He asked them to inform everyone on the kibbutz.

  All of Zofia’s old friends planned to come and help to arrange the shiva for the mourners. They all knew Katja and Mendel. Within the hour, one of the members of the kibbutz called and said that several people would be arriving in Tel Aviv that night.

  Katja faded in and out of sleep due to the medications the doctor had given her to dull her senses.

  She awakened to hear voices in the kitchen, strange voices. Then she saw the mirror in her room covered, and she remembered she was sitting shiva, the Jewish mourning ritual where the family members sit on low stools to receive the guest to the shiva (funeral). A pain shot through her, but then the drugs kicked back in, and she fell into a fitful sleep.

  For Katja, the next two days were a blur. Zofia helped her dress for the funeral. Because she was so heavily medicated, Katja could hardly stand on her own. So with one arm in Zofia’s and the other in Elan’s, Katja walked slowly into the funeral home. She was seated beside Zofia on the front row. Ima was at home with the women from the kibbutz who had come to prepare the shiva.

  People approached Katja to pay their respects. She faintly heard them say that they were sorry for her loss. Katja nodded, her eyes unfocused, her mind dulled. It felt unreal to her as if she were watching herself in a movie. Katja’s consciousness was so detached from the situation that she didn’t even recognize many of her old friends. The medication had dulled her feelings to the point of nonexistence. That began to change when Rachel walked over to Katja.

  “Kat, I am so sorry,” Rachel said as she knelt down and took Katja’s hands in her own.

  “Rachel…” Katja put her arms around her old friend and hugged her tightly. Seeing Rachel brought everything back. Katja was still in a daze, but all of her pain returned. “I can’t believe he is gone. Do you remember when we were children on the Exodus? When we all first met, you, me, and Mendel? Remember Abe? I remember Abe,” Katja rambled, her mind hazy but filled with thoughts. “Mendel was always the level-headed one. He was my rock, Rach. He was my rock. I didn’t realize it, but all of my life I’ve been leaning on Mendel. Now he’s gone. Oh, my God… Rachel, I can’t go on without him.” Katja began crying so hard that the tears spilled down her face. Her nose was running, and her skin was blotchy and red.

  “Shh, it’s okay, Kat. It’s okay,” Rachel said. She took the tail of her
shirt out of her pants and wiped Katja’s face. “Shh…”

  Rachel saw Elan sitting behind Katja in the second row and shook her head at him with disdain. She held Katja in her arms and continued to rock Katja like a baby until the rabbi walked onto the podium.

  The first row of the memorial chapel was usually reserved for mourners, but Rachel sat down beside Katja anyway. Why not? She was a mourner, too. Mendel had been one of her oldest and dearest friends.

  After the services, Rachel stayed with Katja through the burial. Then they went back to the home that Katja and Mendel had shared with Zofia and Ima. Outside the house, Rachel helped Katja to lift the jug of water that had been placed there by the women who set up the shiva. She poured the water over Katja’s hands and then her own. This was part of the shiva that was symbolic of not bringing any more sorrow into the house.

  Ima ran to her grandmother as soon as they walked through the door, and Zofia lifted the child into her arms.

  “Are we having a birthday party, Bubbe?” Ima asked. She was too young to understand. The house was filled with people, food…

  “No, sweetheart, this is not a party,” Zofia said, kissing Ima’s head.

  Katja took off her shoes. She would walk in her stocking feet for the next seven days. This was another tradition of mourning. The lapel of her dress had been torn at some point by the rabbi. This too, was tradition, but she could not remember when it had happened.

  “Can I get you some food?” Rachel asked Katja.

  “No, thank you.”