Chutzpah & High Heels

by Jessica Fishman

  On the bus back home, the mood is tense. Everyone is silent. We are all straining to hear the latest news on the radio from the front of the bus.

  When I get home, I sit in front of the TV. Every Israeli news station is trying to be first to coin a name for the conflict. It looks like the front runner is The Second Lebanon War, even though the IDF continues to claim that this is not a war. I bet that it was decided in my old department not to call it a war.

  So that is it. We are going to war.

  This isn’t my first war in Israel. During my volunteer program, I experienced the Second Gulf War. The night before the war started, my group celebrated Purim, the holiday commemorating Jews being saved from Haman, yet another evil, mustached dictator in Shushan, which is now modern-day Iraq. We were given gas masks in case of chemical weapons. When I tried mine on, it felt like I was wearing a fish tank. We were then forced to carry the gas masks around for a week, even though the threat passed. The rest of the country had already put them in storage. We felt like we were carrying out-of-fashion purses. This war feels more real.

  BEEP. BEEP.

  I look at my phone. It’s a text message.

  We’re heading up north. I’ll talk to you later.

  The text is from Liel. He is heading to the front lines.

  I take a deep breath in.

  Liel is still in my life. I had tried to disconnect from him, but I couldn’t. He keeps coming back into my life—like herpes, which luckily he doesn’t have. I still see him every now and then. I think back to our first date. It was the first date I ever had with an Israeli.

  While teaching English at a high school during my volunteer program, I was trying to understand what one of my students was saying in Hebrew over the other kids yelling in the background. I was concentrating so hard that I barely heard my phone ring.

  “Ahlan, it’s Liel. Remember me?”

  I remember thinking that Orli must have told him about my crush, but I was too excited that he called to be mad at her. He told me that he was calling me from his army base, but would be heading home for the weekend and wanted to know if I wanted to go out on a date.

  We went out for drinks at a bar on the Tel Aviv beach and then headed to his house since there weren’t any buses at that time of night to my place in northern Israel. As he opened the door, I expected to see a bachelor pad. He told me to be quiet since everyone was sleeping.

  “Who is everyone?” I whispered, not knowing then that it is standard for Israeli men to live at home well into their twenties and bring their dates home.

  “My parents, my younger twin brothers, my older sister, her husband, and their three-month-old baby boy.” Seeing that this Israeli officer still lived at home with his family made me realize that all the other soldiers probably lived at home too. With their moms doing their laundry, they no longer seemed as tough as CNN made them out to be.

  I thought about the notorious walk of shame from fraternity row during college and tried to imagine what it would be like in front of his entire family, even though I had no intention of sleeping with him that night.

  The next morning, I sat down with his whole family to enjoy a full breakfast platter that his mom had made. Dating in Israel was so different than dating in America. When I would visit my American boyfriend at his parents’ house during college, even after we’d been together for two years, his parents still made us sleep in different rooms. Liel’s mom was almost acting as if she was happy that her son might be getting some action.

  In the afternoon, Liel took me to the Carmel Shuk, the open air food market in south Tel Aviv. We bought fresh fruits and lemonade with mint leaves that was so sour it pinched our cheeks. Hand in hand, we strolled down Nachalat Benyamin, the artist market, and gazed at pictures, paintings, pottery, and jewelry. We went to the beach to watch the sunset. Then, wearing a helmet and carrying a bouquet of flowers, I jumped on the back of his motorcycle.

  Driving back to his place at dusk I fell in love with Tel Aviv—with its romance, trendiness, liveliness, sexiness, sacrilege, and Jewishness. It was everything the rest of the country was not. It was me. It was my future. I never wanted to leave. As the wind swept through my hair, I squeezed Liel tighter as if trying to hold on to that moment.

  I slowly exhale. I wonder when I will hear from him again.

  I text Yehuda, my old officer, who is still in the army.

  If you need me to come in for miluim, reserve duty, just let me know.

  Experiencing this war in my twenties, while in the Middle East, feels very different than when I was ten and had watched on CNN Iraqi scud missiles pound the Jewish nation during the First Gulf War. Then I had experienced the war with my family from the safety of our kitchen, protected by the vast and insignificant corn fields of the upper Midwest. Now, I’m ready to be in the middle of the action.

  Isaiah 2:2

  The war has been going on for more than two weeks. In the beginning, our air force took out all of the Hezbollah strongholds and it looked like we were winning. But last week our ground troops went in and now it feels like we are losing the war. Soldiers are being killed. Rockets are slamming into the north every day. And even though Hezbollah dragged us into this war, Israel is being blamed by the media and the international public.

  I check my phone. I looked at it five minutes ago, but I want to make sure it is working. I haven’t heard from Liel since he told me they were entering Lebanon.

  I look at the TV screen in our living room, which has been constantly on; maybe he will be on the news. He was on the front page of Yediot Acharanot, the leading Israeli newspaper, yesterday.

  I look over at Orli. How is she so calm?

  “Orli, aren’t you worried?” I ask her again, just like I’ve asked her every single night. I feel as if the country might cease to exist if we lose this war.

  “No. Yihyeh b’seder! Everything will be okay!” she always replies confidently.

  The typical Israeli answer for everything also applies to war? However, I’ve begun to notice that no one ever mentions when everything will be okay.

  “Listen, Jessica, Israel has been through many wars and we’ve always been fine. The nation has always survived. We will survive this one too.”

  “Do you promise?” I ask, worrying about Liel.

  “Yes.”

  She is the same age as me and she has already lived through the First Lebanon War, two intifadas, Scud missiles during the First Gulf War, and many other war-like operations. Her parents have lived through the Yom Kippur War, the Six Day War, and the War of Independence.

  I look back at the TV. An Israeli reporter, with our northern border in the background and the sounds of war surrounding him, begins his report. “It has now been cleared that we can announce that there has been intense fighting in Bint Jbeil. Hezbollah ambushed the Israeli forces and killed eight soldiers.”

  A graphical re-enactment of the ambush is shown. It almost looks like a video game. I see little cartoon Hezbollah terrorists circling and killing Israeli soldiers.

  But they aren’t just soldiers, they are kids. They have faces. They have families. They had lives. They could be my friends. They could be the kids I volunteered with.

  Then the reporter announces the names of the soldiers who were killed. On the screen are the pictures of the soldiers. I watch carefully, hoping not to see somebody I know. The pictures look like they are from a high school yearbook.

  I don’t recognize any of their faces. My friends are safe for now. And that means Liel is still alive. I realize that I’ve been holding my breath and force myself to exhale.

  Then a crying woman is on camera. Her son was one of the soldiers killed in the attack. Every mother in Israel knows that tomorrow she too might be mourning the loss of her child.

  This has been the worst battle so far. I look over at Orli, hoping to get some encouragement.

  “This was just one battle. We have a whole entire war to win.”

  * * *

&nb
sp; I can’t get any work done. I’m again staring at my computer in my office. I’m looking through the names of the soldiers who were killed yesterday, again hoping not to see Liel’s name.

  I hate not knowing what is going on behind the scenes. I used to help determine what the IDF released to the media. Now I’m dependent on what the media releases.

  The radio has been playing sad songs for over a month now. The entire country is in mourning. The reports from the front lines keep getting worse. There are civilian and soldier deaths every day. More rockets. The entire population in the north is holed up in bunkers. There is more and more ridicule from the international community about how the IDF is handling the war.

  I should be in reserve duty, but Yehuda never got back to me. This war is turning into a PR disaster for Israel. I should not be sitting in this office, flipping through the newspapers. I should be influencing them.

  I look at my cell phone to see if Liel texted from his bunker in Lebanon.

  I wonder why Yehuda hasn’t called me back about doing reserve duty.

  RING. RING.

  It is my office phone.

  “Carmella wants everyone in her office now,” says Carmella’s secretary. I don’t know why Carmella has her secretary call us when she, herself, can obviously yell loud enough for all of us to hear.

  “Why?” I ask, but the secretary has already hung up.

  I walk into the room. The entire department is standing in front of Carmella’s desk. Carmella, of course, is sitting in her big, comfortable chair.

  “As you know, Hassan Nasrallah has been threatening to send rockets into the heart of Tel Aviv.” She stops to look at an email that just came in, which is obviously more important than our safety.

  Hassan Nasrallah is the leader of Hezbollah. If Nasrallah says something is going to happen, then it usually does. The other day he said rockets would hit as far south as Hadera, and they did. Israelis are now looking to him to know what is going to happen during the war.

  “As I was saying,” Carmella begins without apologizing for making us wait. “The threat of a rocket attack on Tel Aviv is growing. So, I just wanted to let you know that the stairwell is to be used as a bomb shelter.”

  She makes this announcement as if this a normal working day in Israel.

  “However, until you hear an air raid warning, I expect all of you to be working as normal. Just because there is a war going on doesn’t mean that you don’t have to work. I don’t care if the media is only covering stories about the war; I want to see stories about our clients too! About the new falafel-flavored cracker or the updated new software release or a real estate investment that a client just made.”

  The newest girl at the agency naively speaks up. “Carmella, if I may say something, it is—”

  “I don’t want to hear excuses! Just get your work done!” Carmella roars.

  I look around the room. No one says anything. I begin to wonder why I am still at this job. I’m not fulfilled. I’m not challenged. I have an abusive boss. This is not the army. I don’t have to wait for a release date. I need something more.

  “Why are you still here? Get to work!”

  On the Home Front

  BOOM!

  I slam the door at 9:30 P.M.

  “Orli! I’m going to kill her! I can’t stand her! That woman is ruining my life! I feel like I’m at a work camp.”

  Work has gotten back to normal and so has the rest of the country. With no clear victor, and after thirty-four days of fighting, the Second Lebanon War came to an end. Yehuda, my old officer, never called me to serve in reserve duty. The falafel-flavored cracker never made it into the newspaper. The UN forces deployed in southern Lebanon. But with the effectiveness of the UN forces, it would have been just as useful to put some mall rent-a-cops on the border. Hezbollah has probably already started stockpiling weapons for the next war.

  “Are you just getting back from work? You have been working fourteen-hour days non-stop.”

  “Orli, you don’t understand. I sit at my desk and daydream about Carmella dropping dead from an aneurism while she is yelling at me. I will her to be hit with that life-size pendulum at work.”

  “What happened today?” Orli asks, used to my rants about Carmella.

  I walk into Orli’s room. Wearing a dress and high heels, she is standing in front of her mirror, putting on makeup.

  “Are you coming out with the girls tonight?”

  “No, I’m tired. I’m going to bed early,” I say as I fall down onto her bed.

  “So tell me about it.”

  “I have a few new clients now. But at least I got rid of the client in Jerusalem. So the newest client is that radio station for peace. Why a radio station thinks that it can solve the problems of the Middle East when no one else has been able to, I don’t know,” I fume. “Anyhow, they are planning a big launch. I barely even have time to get up to go to the bathroom, much less eat during the entire day. Well, my senior account manager tells me to send out the invitation to the press conference after approving it and then after sending them out to CNN, BBC, and the AP, I realized that the date was wrong. Well, I got really upset. Just as I started tearing up, Carmella walks in.”

  “Nu, go on . . . Did she ask why you were upset?”

  “No. Do you think she cares? She started yelling at me for crying!”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said ‘Don’t you dare start crying! Do you think your life is so hard? I pull these hours all the time! I’m not going to feel sorry for you! Now, knock it off and get back to work!”

  “Did you say anything?” Orli asks.

  “No, I never answer her back.” I learned that it is never worthwhile getting into a competition with an Israeli woman about whose life is worse. I could have been hit by a bus, robbed, and diagnosed with cancer all in the same day and they still would have found something worse in their lives to complain about. It’s like a contest to them. “She just walked out of the room.”

  “I think she needs a heart transplant, because hers definitely isn’t working.”

  I laugh. Orli always knows how to cheer me up.

  “Why don’t you just quit?” Orli asks me.

  “Because, it is the best PR agency in Israel. Once I pay my dues here, I will be able to get a good job . . .” I say out loud, but hope that the personal sacrifices I’m making now will actually pay off down the road. “Oh, and I didn’t tell you what happened to me today at the bus station.”

  “What?” Orli is used to me always having funny stories.

  “I was running late for work, so I walked across the street on a red light by the train station.”

  “Oh, no. Jessica, don’t you know that lazy police officers hide out there to ambush jaywalkers instead of doing actual work?” she asks.

  “I know now,” I say. “But get this, the police officer said she would give me a warning, but then when she saw on my driver’s license that I have only had my license for three years she said she had to give me a ticket.”

  “What? Why?” Orli asks.

  “I don’t know, I guess in this country first you have to prove that you don’t know how to drive before you have the right to be able to walk illegally,” I sarcastically say. “Well, have a good night out. I’m going to bed.”

  * * *

  BEEP. BEEP.

  It is two in the morning. Who could be texting me now? I roll over and grab my phone.

  The text is from Liel. Are you awake?

  I haven’t heard from him since the war. This is how he lets me know he is alive—with a booty call? Wait, he isn’t even bothering to booty-call me . . . he is booty-texting me! I can’t believe this. After I spent the entire war worrying about him. And after the day I had at work.

  I don’t have the energy for this anymore. I’m sick of waiting for him to be ready for a relationship. I need to cut him out of my life. I want something real.

  Working Nine to Five, What a Way to Make a Living . . .<
br />
  “Jessica! Jessica! Are you listening?” Cruella yells at me, trying to snap me out of my gaze.

  “Uh, huh,” I say . . . 24, 25, 26.

  “Well, then why are these logos in Hebrew? Do you think that means anything to a client who can’t read Hebrew? Do you even think before you do things?”

  31, 32 . . . “You wanted those clients’ logos. They don’t exist in English. I checked.” 33, 34, 35 . . . I’m counting the number of floors on the building that is being constructed across the street from our offices.

  “Is that supposed to be an excuse?” Carmella bellows rhetorically.

  Wait, where was I? 34 . . . 36. Damn. “No, Carmella. It is not an excuse. It is a fact,” I say, no longer caring how she is going to react. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . .

  Carmella takes off her glasses so that the lasers in her eyes can better penetrate me. “Why do you even bother responding to me?”

  12, 13, 14, 15 . . . I tune her out. I’m not going to let her get to me like Yoni did. I’m stronger now.

  Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into a year and a half. I have no social life anymore. All I do is work. I need something more, so I decide to start an MBA program. At the very least, it gives me an excuse to leave work by 7:00 P.M.

  As much as I hate my job, I’m actually getting scared that I’ll get laid off. A few months ago, I had a dream that when I walked into my office one morning, I found my desk completely cleared off. In the dream, I walked over to Carmella’s secretary and asked her, “What is going on? Where is all of my stuff?”

  She responded, “Didn’t you get the text message? Carmella fired you.”

  Ever since that dream, I started noticing that I was no longer invited to meetings with my clients. I didn’t get as many emails from my manager or co-workers. I felt like I was getting pushed out.

  “I think I’m going to get fired,” I tell Orli and the other girls at a café.