Bonnie left the room to go to his father’s study. When he returned, he threw a pile of blue-colored work outfits all over the coffee table. “Do you know what these are?”
The men came over to the heap of clothes and uncovered a blue triangular tag attached to one of the pants.
“Blue jeans work denims!” cried Shmil. “I’ve been looking for one of those for years! Where did you get ’em?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. Michal and I went through dad’s personal effects and put them in order. We got to the storage, too. Once we went over the lot, we found this box in one of the corners, an old carboard box covered in rags. No one even touched it for years. We carried it out to the porch, opened it up and discovered all sorts of old things that used to belong to grandpa. These pants were at the bottom of the box. They had these ads of some blue jeans factory. I remember from dad’s stories that Pops used to work there. Still, I have no idea how they got to be in his storage. Do you have any idea how?”
“That’s quite a story,” Moishe interjected. “I know, from those stories, that after they set up that factory, long before all of us were even born, every time money was tight, or in winter, they would go to work down at the jeans factory for some extra cash, what you might call, ‘supplement their income.’ But what’s that got to do with these denims?”
“Maybe your Pops stole ’em?” Haim asked cunningly.
“There you go again with your foolish crap,” Shmil exclaimed. “We’re in mourning, not out looking for thieves.”
“So where did he get them jeans from, eh?”
Shloimeh, the eldest member of the bunch, who had kept silent about all this until now, joined in. “I came to the funeral in my blue jeans. Shmil took me aside when they were lowering the coffin into the ground and asked me where I got them from.”
“No, I didn’t. Only after Avram was buried.”
“Before, after, what does it matter? What’s important here is the question, which I couldn’t answer. I went back to Feige and asked her, seeing as here in our village, it’s the women who are in charge of the clothing. At first, she could not recall. She’s been a bit senile recently, you know… Anyway, she got back to me after some time and said it came back to her. She told me that her dad once told her that anyone who worked at the jeans factory got a pair of pants for Passover as a gift on the occasion of the holiday. The pants I was wearing, well, her dad got them. He gave ’em to me as a wedding present when I married Feige. So there.”
“That was your entire dowry?”
“No. I also got a kova tembel.”
“How many years did your Pops work at the factory?” Ronny, another member of the gang, asked him.
“I don’t know exactly, but there are nine pairs here, so do the math…” Bonnie replied.
“Why did he keep them?” Ronny insisted.
“Not everything has an answer,” Shmil cut the discussion short. “Gotta leave some room for suspense in life.”
“So be it. Anyway, I haven’t any need for work clothes, so I would like each of you to have a pair. A gift. In my dad’s name.”
“But there are only nine pairs here…”
“No sweat. Haim will wait until my Pops steals another pair.”
Chapter Four
Bonnie seldom walked into his father’s study. He revered and respected him and never went through his papers. Avram, in turn, was proud and loving. Even as a child, Avram would proudly present Bonnie, whenever he tagged along, as his tall, beautiful son, saying, “As luck would have it, Bonnie here’s got his mom’s genes rather than mine.”
In the evening of the fourth day of the shiva, once the last person who came to offer their respects had left, Estée, Michal and Bonnie were sitting together in the terrace facing west, which was always windswept and drenched during winter and all the more beautiful for it, tender in the glow of sunset in the fall.
“We need to get into dad’s study and tidy up,” said Bonnie.
“Count me out,” Estée immediately exclaimed.
She had this terrified look. All during shiva, she sat as much as she had to with those who came over, biding her time till they were out the door. When each day came to a close, she and her two kids took their seats in the big porch, spent and exhausted from all those stories and guests. Bonnie and Michal were keen to hear new anecdotes and tidbits about their father. Estée, in contrast, was all too familiar with the stories, and whatever was new had gone through one ear and out the next.
“I keep seeing Avram sitting on his chair, his head lying on his desk, his open eyes gazing at the door. Helpless. I’m not getting in there,” Estée concluded.
That terrible day, Estée had walked in to ask Avram whether he would like some tea. Upon seeing her husband in that state, she had begun shouting. Next, she had called in Bonnie, whose house was right next door. Bonnie had laid his father on the floor, called for an ambulance and begun his own attempt to resuscitate him. The ambulance had been quick to arrive, and the paramedic had quickly taken over from Bonnie and rushed Avram, still conscious and hooked up to an oxygen mask, to the hospital, siren sounding and everything. Bonnie had driven right behind, Estée by his side.
Bonnie and his mother had waited in the emergency room with Michal, whom they had called away from her home in the nearby town. The three had heard the sound of the fight the medical team was waging over Avram’s life. As time went by, the noise had subsided, until they could no longer hear the doctors or the nurses, not even the respirator or life support machine. Silence.
“I’m truly sorry, we didn’t make it,” the manager of the emergency room had put his arms around Estée, shaken Bonnie’s and Michal’s hands, and off he had gone.
***
They finished their sweet tea and Bonnie said, “We have to. It can’t be helped. We’re going in.”
The room, silently conveying the fight for Avram’s life, was an absolute mess. The chair was thrown back, papers scattered all over the floor next to it; disconnected from the socket, the lamp had fallen, too. There were piles of plastic sheets in the corner.
Bonnie and Michal proceeded to tidy up without a word. They laid the paperwork back on the desk, set the lamp back up, lifted the chair and opened the windows to let the air back in.
“I suggest you return tomorrow morning,” Estée said quietly, her eyes blank.
“You’re right, mother. It’s difficult to be here.” Bonnie left to return to his nearby residence as Estée laid her sheets out on the living room couch, as she did throughout the mourning week.
The following day, after they had had their morning coffee, Bonnie and Michal went back into Avram’s study as their mother went in the kitchen. The night air had let in a pleasant, fragrant breeze and aired out the stuffy room, with a window, facing a magnificent view of the fields, on the northern wall. The bookcase that stretched on either side of the window consisted of wooden shelves and iron stands. It was packed with rows of books.
“I didn’t know dad has so many books,” Michal told Bonnie.
“I actually do remember all these children’s books, Michali,” Bonnie replied, marveling at his favorites, those copies of books by Israeli children authors, his series of Tarzan books, old copies of children’s magazines, and so on. “Who was he saving it all for?”
“Grandkids, probably,” Michal answered.
They looked at the disarray of the shelf above the children’s books. Encyclopedia volumes, all sorts of poetry books, Passover Haggadah, History of Modern Hebrew Literature, albums of photographs of the Six Day War, books by 19th century Hebrew authors, etc.
“I didn’t know he took an interest in teen psychology.” Bonnie pulled out one of the books. “What shall we do with them? I don’t think I would find an interest in any of them.”
“I don’t care for them either, but I don’t think we should come to any deci
sion right now. Perhaps we’d better talk it over with mom when she’s feeling better.”
The study also had its fair share of paintings, mostly reproductions of works by Rembrandt and Van Gogh, a family photo pf Avram, Estée and the two kids, and an old photo of Avram’s parents, who were among the founders of Tel Broshim.
“Michal, let’s move over to the desk.”
Avram’s desk stood out as the most curious and unusual item in the entire room. Contrary to the bookcase, the faded curtains and old couch, the desk conveyed some intriguing respectability, with its shiny mahogany and handcrafted woodwork which augmented its general air. The desk featured a four-drawer left cabinet one could extend out using four polished ivory balls.
“Dad once told me that Pops bought this desk. Our grandfather had picked it up at the old flea market in Nazareth and bought it for a song. With an army friend of his, he had it restored. They came across the original sign of the craftsmen, a real artisan from Istanbul, while they were busy with the renovation. The sign attested to its authenticity and origin. Apparently, a Turkish pasha bought it and had it brought over to his summer palace in Nazareth, which is how it ended up being sold off, until it finally made its way to the suk. I would like to have it someday,” Bonnie concluded.
“But in the meantime, it’s Mom’s. let’s go through the drawers, Bonnie.”
The top drawer comprised ten-year-old bank statements, old checkbook stubs, pay slips and the like. Bonnie and Michal left the most recent bank statements and pay slips and put everything else in a large bag.
The second drawer was yet another treasure trove of old bills. “There’s not a single receipt dad has not kept,” they remarked, rifling through old electricity bills, village taxes, a receipt for getting the cow shed roof fixed, for veterinary payments, old bus tickets, a subscription to the encyclopedia, a ten year old receipt for staying at a sanatorium at Zichron Yaakov, a dentist bill, old cinema tickets and dozens of other receipts for all sorts of things.
They threw the drawer’s entire contents into the trash can.
The third drawer contained their father’s personal papers: end of year report cards from the regional school, his army card, some faded commendation for heroics dad had performed. It was signed by a major. Dad kept his discharge papers when his army service was up, his and Estée’s marriage license, a complaint he had made to Tnuva, the food and beverage company for damages caused by a late milk collection, a framed distinguished service award Avram received from work, and dozens of similar items, which neither of Avram’s children was at all impressed by.
“I do hope my kids will find more interesting stuff in my drawers someday,” Bonnie joked.
They set aside the documents they’d decided to save, tied them in a string and put them back into the third drawer.
The last drawer consisted of photos: old pictures of Avram’s elementary school, childhood trips, the summit of Masada, the beach at Eilat and other childhood photos they could not recognize.
“Dad never told me whether he had any girlfriends before Mom,” Bonnie quipped.
He and Michal skimmed through their parents’ wedding photos, their own childhood photos, pictures of the old cow shed and other equally interesting memorabilia.
“Let’s leave it all to the kids we’ll have someday. It’ll make for a nice family tree project for them…” Michal and Bonnie agreed as they slammed the drawer shut.
Chapter Five
IDF Chief of the General Staff Lt. General Shauli Aviram announced his resignation. It was a sudden move that was met with great surprise. His private meeting with the minister of defense focused on his telling the minister he felt he had exhausted his interest and ability in office, so he had decided to retire and embark on a new course.
“What are you going to do?” the minister asked.
“I am going to be a farmer. Cows.”
This reply took the minister by surprise. Lt. General Shauli Aviram was the minister’s senior commander. Nevertheless, he knew all too well that “Shamrock” always had the last word and there was no point arguing. He gave him his blessing and wished him all the best.
Shauli, or ‘Shamrock,’ as everyone who knew him called him, went and bought himself a cow shed. He got a dairy farm with 32 milk cows in the Jezreel Valley from a farmer whose age and failing health kept him from holding on to the farm.
No one knew how the nickname Shamrock stuck to Shauli. His own father swore he did not name him Shamrock at birth, but apart from Shauli’s parents and Shauli on the dotted line, no one knew him by any other name. He was Shamrock.
The first step in this new chapter in his life was to improve the state of his dairy farm and give each cow her own name. Getting to know each of them on a first name basis, he thought, would lead to a personal connection with the cow, boost productivity and improve the quality of the milk. Shamrock named his first nineteen cows after the girlfriends he had had in the course of his life. He asked his wife to provide him with the name of her own female friends, but she only gave him five. The remaining names he obtained from his fellow army friends, all of whom were generals. Each had come to see for himself whether the rumors were true, that their illustrious commander had indeed turned farmer. Not so long ago, he was a demigod to them, their promotion was totally dependent on him, and now… he has opted for cow dung instead of a general’s baton.
Shamrock treated each of his former subordinate officers to a personal treatment the likes of which he never bestowed on them before. He took them on a personal tour of the farm and even engaged in gossip, a rare occasion as he was famed to be sparing in his use of words. He succeeded in delightfully getting them to tell him the names of their wives. Seeing as none of them ever returned to the cow shed, they were none the wiser about his unique commemoration of their spouses...
Ida, the new cow farmer’s wife, could not be happier with this change. Short and silver haired with an occasional white streak, she had kind eyes. A devoted wife and mother, she would always tell their three children she wasn’t actually married to “Shamrock” for thirty eight years, as the official documents attested, but rather three measly years, if you were to subtract the time he was never around. Come to think of it, she continued, his total net stay at home between wars and drills amounted to three years, but two and a half years out of that he spent sleeping in their marriage bed, exhausted as he was from chronic fatigue and constant lack of sleep, the main trait of his military service throughout his tenure.
“Even now, I’m still puzzled as to how we ever found the time to have three kids…,” she always told her children genuinely perplexed.
As part of their new lives, Ida set up a small dairy farm right next to the cow shed, where she made exquisite yoghurt and cheeses. She sold some and gave most of the produce as gifts to their relatives and numerous visitors.
***
Several months after his father’s passing, Bonnie received a phone call. General Shamrock was on the other end of the line.
“Hello, Shamrock here. I got your name from one of the neighbors. It’s about Mathilde, my cow. She’s having a difficult labor, so I need your help.”
Bonnie received the call with palpable excitement. Shamrock had been his much-admired commander during his military service in the parachute brigade. Shamrock was as creative as he was brave: strong, with eyes like a hawk and rare leadership skills. His soldiers had looked up to him and worshiped the ground he had walked on. He used to keep them at a distance, so any conversation anyone had with him was as rare as it was a real treat and a powerful experience.
Hearing his old commander took Bonnie back to a horrific memory of an event from eighteen years before. He was called to him on some business, but rather than raise his right hand in salute, Bonnie accidentally saluted with his left.
“Circle the parade ground ten times! Run with your full combat gear, complete with your
steel helmet and gun. On the double!”
That was Shamrock for you. The punishment always came down hard and without delay.
The weight of this trauma still lingered, and, genuinely concerned he was about to be summoned in full combat gear to circle his veterinary clinic running, Bonnie rushed for his medical kit, shut his clinic, put up the “Be right back soon” sign and hurried over to the general turned dairy farmer.
The calf was delivered safe and sound and everything went well. Also an avid reader, Shamrock named the calf ‘Chekov.’ The subsequent calves were named ‘Victor’ and ‘Hugo.’ He knew they would be sent to the slaughter within six months, so he was thrifty with their names.
With the successful labor over and done with, Shamrock asked Bonnie to come and sit with him on the porch, where, seated by the natural wood table the retired general built single-handedly, he offered the vet a plate of homemade cheese. They got to talking, and Bonnie did not neglect to mention how much he admired Shamrock when he was his commander. At the end of their pleasant meeting, they parted wishing to meet again under auspicious terms.
But the general’s cow shed had nothing but troubles. Two weeks after Mathilde’s labor, the general called the vet again, this time to treat Suzy’s sprained leg, which she sustained due to a crack in the floor of the pen. Bonnie bandaged her leg and promised the owner a complete recovery. This time, the assortment of cheeses went down with four bottles of beer Bonnie had picked up at the local grocery in the small mall that housed his clinic as well. The two friends discussed politics, corruption and the state of the Middle East.
But the troubles that plagued the cow shed wouldn’t go away. The general called Bonnie to complain that the new heifer wouldn’t suckle Miri, her mom. Bonnie, ever the skilled vet, applied sugar syrup onto Miri’s udders. Problem solved.
At their usual table, the general informed him of a new problem. Tova, a young fatted cow, recently took up a new hobby, every time they would milk her, she would kick the full bucket, spilling the entire contents.
Deadly Ties Page 3