by Assaf Gavron
“We welcome any Jew with open arms,” the man continued. “You can stay here as long as you like, we’ll give you food and a bed. If you want to stay longer, we may be able to set you up in one of the trailers for singles. We always need help with guarding, construction, gardening work. Just tell me one thing—are you in trouble with the law or something?”
Gabi didn’t like the speech he was being subjected to, but couldn’t really fathom more favorable circumstances—a distant and remote location, someone who was willing to host him despite knowing he was an impostor. But something about the man bothered him. And something about the place annoyed him. Perhaps the man reminded him too much of the adults on the kibbutz—meddlesome, holier-than-thou, with that air of arrogance and absolute self-assurance of those who believe they know best and are amused by the efforts of others to question them. He shook his head. No, he wasn’t in trouble with the law.
He joined the family for another dinner. He went on to spend two more nights on a mattress on the floor in the children’s room, oblivious to their crying at night and the pitter-patter of their feet in the morning and their banging on the table and the crashing to the floor of their toys; he didn’t even notice David’s inquisitive efforts to pet his head and pry open one of his eyelids. He slept undisturbed almost until noon, when he opened his eyes to a quiet and empty home, raided the refrigerator and bread box, took a long shower, dressed again in the IDF uniform and Palladium boots, dug around in the pockets of the army pants, found a Noblesse, crumpled and bent but not broken, smoothed it out between his fingers, pulled out a box of matches, lit the cigarette, looked around room, and thought.
Finishing off the cigarette, he threw the butt into the remains of a cup of coffee in the kitchen sink and listened to it fizzle to its death. Then he went into the parents’ room, rummaged through the drawers, found 600 shekels tucked away in a prayer book, looked around, pocketed the money, placed a bag on his shoulder, and headed out in the direction of the gate to the settlement. He hated the place—but, as the saying goes, he had made the best of it.
The Orienteering
Roni was called in for a chat ahead of solo-orienteering week. They wanted to make things easier for him, they expressed understanding for his unique family situation. But they laid it out straight for him nevertheless. You have your adoptive parents, who’ve already returned from abroad. There’s the kibbutz. An entire network has taken charge and is concerned and searching. You can’t be responsible for everything. You can’t wander the country high and low and expect to find one specific individual in a population of four million—particularly someone who is obviously in hiding and doesn’t want to be found. What are the chances? You have commitments, they said. Be thankful you aren’t in a regular unit, which wouldn’t afford you these special leaves of absence. So, come on, Roni, get ahold of yourself. We have missions and duties to carry out, training and exercises. We have a week of solo orienteering. Roni nodded. Yes, yes, I know. I’m sorry for not being myself of late, it’s just the whole story, you know. Yes, we know, they said, but . . .
Yes, Roni replied. He’d get his act together, he’d complete the orienteering drill in first place, he’d show everyone the real Roni Kupper. He thought about all the time wasted, all the traveling, without even getting close to a single lead. He didn’t have a clue about where to go, where to try. He had thought initially about contacting the police, but in a call from abroad, Dad Yossi told him in no uncertain terms to refrain from speaking with them, so he carried on wandering around with a photograph of his brother, along with a basic description, although the Golani uniform and pin were probably discarded by then. And while he knew his chances were slim, he needed those hours on the road—to feel remorse, to cry, to think about the mistakes he had made, about the years spent distancing himself, about Yifat, the fucking bitch.
Dad Yossi and Mom Gila didn’t move up their scheduled return from Europe by a single minute, despite the fact that Roni called them at their hotel on the second night (out of twelve) to tell them that Gabi had disappeared, and continued to call them almost every evening, asking them to return, begging almost, and becoming very angry. Yossi, at the hotel, asked Gila, and Gila let out a smoky chuckle and shook her head from side to side and asked, “Can you see what I’m doing? Can you see me? Do you know the meaning of this motion?” Neither Gabi nor anyone else was going to interrupt her trip. She barely showed any interest at all, while Yossi rushed every day to check for a message in the lobby, or worriedly scratched his gray head.
But the moment they returned to the kibbutz, Yossi took charge of things and set up a search command center in his and Gila’s room. He didn’t involve the police—it’s an internal matter—but decided to release Gabi’s photograph and description to the Davar newspaper, and it wasn’t long before people began calling and offering conflicting reports. He was seen in Kiryat Ata, Eilat, Herzliya, Tiberias, and Be’er Tuvia. He was seen sporting a beard, wearing a hat, dressed in the uniform of the Israeli Air Force, wearing an elegant gray suit. Roni offered to check out all the leads himself, but Dad Yossi convinced him to return to his unit to do the week of orienteering, while he, the father, got on a bus and traveled south to Gila’s brother in Kibbutz Revivim, stopping along the way at all the places mentioned in the reports, and then heading down to Eilat.
Roni decided to spend the weekend before the orienteering drill at the kibbutz, to rest and clear his head, but instead he clouded it with large quantities of Goldstar beer and a drunken and unexpected episode, the details of which he was unable to recall afterward, with the beautiful Orit from his class at school, who was serving at the time at an air force base and had a pilot boyfriend who was on duty for the weekend. He woke late on Saturday and then went over to the command center to check for an update on the situation.
Roni returned on Sunday to his base, and from there, everyone got on a bus and headed south. His unit commander sat alongside him for part of the ride, and asked how he was doing, and how the search was going, he had seen the notice in Davar at his kibbutz, has anyone responded? He was pleased Roni had made it, reminded him that orienteering week was important, part of a large-scale military exercise that the chief of staff would be monitoring. Their unit had a vital role to play in the drill, locating the objectives and leading the forces, and it was important to him for Roni to be involved. He knew Roni was talented, that he could do it, but he had to remain focused. It was an opportunity for Roni to put recent events behind him, he said—he understood just how tough things had been—adjust his mind-set, and reestablish himself as a part of the unit, which loved and embraced him.
The officer then stood and addressed everyone via the bus’s microphone. “Until now, guys, it’s all been a joke, child’s play. Believe me. What have you done so far? Fitness drills? Firing range exercises? Standing battle orders? Parachuting? Courses and lessons? Forget them. They’re child’s play. What we’re about to do today is what we live for—reconnaissance. Functioning as a commando unit. Patrolling ahead of the forces, navigating, leading the way. All through unknown territory, and at the risk of being discovered. That’s why we’re going down to the Negev, to an area in which we haven’t worked much at all. When this personnel carrier lets out its pssst and you step through that door, I want you to show the world what the Golani commando unit is all about. You’ll be getting the orienteering charts. Study them and memorize them until they are etched in your brains, or on your asses, for all I care. Believe me. Come on, go out there and show the world and the chief of staff what you’re worth.”
Roni believed him and wanted to show the world, and even the chief of staff, what he was worth. He studied the charts and navigation routes until they were etched in his brain and on his ass. He readied himself in silence, checked his weapon and ammunition and water and snacks and boots, loaded his equipment on his back, obeyed every instruction, listened to all the briefings, responded to every question, helped his brothers in arms, and headed out—t
ight-chested, bold-hearted, narrow-eyed, and with good intentions.
He felt good for the first few kilometers. The equipment felt light on his back; his legs carried him almost playfully; he was even enjoying himself. But then a dark shadow began working its way in, into his thoughts and into the depths of his spongy brain. Because ultimately, you’re hopeless, you don’t stand a chance of repelling it. When you walk through the night for hours and have to remain focused, have to stay awake, you invite them in, the thoughts, you need them to maintain your rhythm, to block out the weight and the burning that starts in your toes and on the soles of your feet, you call to them because you have the time to develop them, to organize them in your overcrowded mind. And then they came flooding back, the mistakes he had made, the years of distancing himself, Yifat the fucking bitch, the tears. He had promised to pull himself together, to finish first, but his mind was consumed and it was difficult to focus.
Roni stopped and drank some water. He must focus. He had prepared for this week. He knew he could do it, and his commander knew he could, too. Gabi would come back. It wasn’t his responsibility. Others were dealing with the worrying and searching. Dad Yossi had things under control. And Roni wanted to remain a part of the unit. He retrieved a crumpled Noblesse cigarette from the pocket of his fatigues. Smoking while on orienteering exercises was forbidden, but how else was he going to clear his head? He sat down, leaned back against his equipment, pulled out a match, and lit up. Just one and he’d move on. He could picture the navigation coordinates in his mind. He was doing fine. He was heading in the right direction. The stars were helping him, the compass set him straight. He was going to finish first with ease, he’d show the chief of staff.
He continued walking. The load on his back grew heavier. The navigation coordinates etched into his brain and on his ass began to fade. He stopped to eat something small. To drink. To smoke. To shit. He’d be okay. Despite relieving it of water, food, and cigarettes, the load grew heavier still. He hadn’t seen a member of his unit for quite some time, not that he was supposed to see anyone, but you usually ran into someone, paths crossed, you’d join up and talk for a little while to stave off the boredom and then split up. But that night, not a soul. Here were the stars, here was the compass. He saw lights. What’s that? Is it the kibbutz? He was drowning in sweat, he’d take the load off his back for just a moment. He rested. He drank. He wanted to smoke but was all out of cigarettes. Perhaps he should go in, only to ask for a cigarette? It was so hot. He was breathing heavily. It would get a lot hotter after daybreak.
He found himself shivering, mumbling to himself, alongside the perimeter fence of some community or other, calling for Gabi, and then he thought he saw him. Where was he? There was the kibbutz, he was at the kibbutz, there were the lawns, the gardens that Dad Yossi and his groundskeeping team planted and tended so beautifully, there was the swimming pool and dining hall, the concrete paths. He felt drawn to the lights. There was Gabi. Gabi? Gabi fixed him with an odd stare. Gabi? Do you have a cigarette? He didn’t respond, but simply looked—what does he want, why does he look like that? Who the hell is that?
* * *
It wasn’t Gabi. At the time, Gabi was indeed down south, in the desert, but hundreds of kilometers from Roni’s IDF orienteering training exercises. He was in the Sinai Peninsula, in Ras Burqa, meandering over sand dunes and down to the blue water. His journey there had been a surprising, intoxicating, hitchhiking quest that took him from Ofra to Be’er Tuvia, from Be’er Tuvia to Eilat, and from Eilat to Ras Burqa. The Gam-zu-Le-tova family’s 600 shekels would provide for him comfortably for several weeks, he worked out, and certainly in Ras Burqa—what was there to buy there, anyway? He befriended a group from Haifa who were collectively buying food supplies and water and ice and beer, cooking together and sharing their meals, and he paid his part and shared in the cooking, dishwashing, and trips to get ice. They even gave him a blanket and he slept on it under the stars. They didn’t ask questions, that’s what he liked most about them, and thus he spent his days, lazing on the sand, occasionally putting on a mask and snorkel and exploring the reef a little, submerged in the silence, with snorkel-allotted breaths of air, with colors that exploded into view and moved and dodged away. There, under the water, the embers of his mind, his spiraling rage, his scorched nerve endings found peace and cooled. On the blanket, under a star-studded desert sky, he managed to suppress his anger toward Dad Yossi and Mom Gila, his longing for Roni, his thoughts of Yotam and Ofir and the kibbutz dining hall. He managed to close his eyes and fall soundly asleep, before waking to the pre-dawn chill.
“Hey, I want a turn, too!” Nili, one of the girls, responded when he asked one day for the air mattress and diving mask and snorkel. “Come,” Gabi said, and they went out together, she on the air mattress, legs on the cushion and mask in the water, he dragging the air mattress, watching the fish together. It was afternoon, the sun had disappeared behind the mountains to the west, and the visibility under the water wasn’t all that great, but it was the time when the fish usually emerged from the reef, and they got the chance to observe lionfish and puffers, spotted an octopus and saw sea horses and butterfly fish and clownfish. Gabi pointed and Nili followed with her eyes, then looked at him, and through the foggy glass of the mask, he saw her smiling back at him. From that afternoon on, Nili sat next to him at mealtimes, washed dishes by his side, moved closer and closer to his blanket, found it a few nights later and fell asleep on it, and they woke in the morning to find themselves cuddled together, shielding themselves from the dawn chill, and she smiled at him and lightly kissed his lips, and then pulled away and went over to her sleeping bag without saying a word.
Nili wasn’t the prettiest girl in the group, but she was the most enchanting. They shared their first real kiss up at the lookout point after a grueling climb in the scorching sun, totally exhausted, with the entire blue sea spread out below them, a long, deep kiss, spattered with sand and silky. Both were in their bathing suits, touching only exposed parts, not daring to cross any lines or disturb the resting places of any bands of elastic, a sweet and delicious and wet kiss. A kiss that should have marked a new and exciting stage for both of them, but remained only a promise.
The following morning, while they lay side by side on the beach, the earth trembled. He looked at her and she looked at him, and they smiled, and she placed her hand on his and squeezed.
“Did you feel the earth move?” he asked.
“Yes, an earthquake,” she responded. The beach around them remained unfazed—the bodies sprawled, and the swimmers swam, and the fish were probably napping, and the tents stood firm. Nili squeezed his hand again. “It’s okay,” she said. “It happens here a lot. The Great Rift Valley.”
Just then, a new group of guys and girls arrived in Ras Burqa. Gabi glanced over at them, and his body tensed. Among them, he recognized from afar, was Anna, a classmate from school, from a neighboring kibbutz, the same kibbutz as Roni’s ex, Yifat. Anna, so named because her father was a volunteer from England or Sweden or wherever (Gabi couldn’t quite recall that day in the Sinai, though in time he would become very familiar with her biography) who fell in love with her mother on the kibbutz. Gabi couldn’t take his eyes off the new arrivals, who set up camp a few dozen meters from his Haifa group. All the layers he had shed during weeks of sand, sea, fish, and Nili returned to encase him.
“What’s up?” Nili asked, glancing over at the new group. Gabi didn’t answer, his gaze unwavering. He had recognized her in an instant, but wanted to be sure he wasn’t imagining things. He wasn’t. Anna, with the round face and the sad eyes and the lone dimple and the straight, dark hair, cut neck-length in a style he wasn’t familiar with but liked nevertheless. Anna, with her kibbutz gait, her flip-flops and shabby jeans and gray-blue tank top with its kibbutz laundry tag clearly visible from afar. It was Anna for sure, and he needed to get the hell away from there. To go on the run again, hide. He couldn’t risk her returning north and telling so
meone where he was; he didn’t want anyone who knew him to learn where he was.
With the head of hair he had grown, he was going to have a hard time passing himself off as a soldier, and he was too young to be a reservist, but he donned the uniform again and it helped him nevertheless to land a ride just minutes after managing to slip away to the road with his bag, without a word of farewell to anyone, only a mumbled, incomprehensible explanation to the stunned Nili. Any regrets faded the moment he entered the car. The Ras Burqa chapter of his life was behind him now. It was best not to stay, not to become attached. He had to move on.
“Where do you need to get to?” the driver asked.
“Where are you going?” Gabi replied.
“Me? To Faran,” the driver said.
“Great, it’s on my way,” Gabi responded, completely in the dark.
“To Dimona,” the next driver said. “Great,” said Gabi.
“Me? To Beersheba.” “Ofakim.” “Beit Guvrin.”
“Excellent.”
And the accompanying questions and remarks, too, of course: “Do they allow you to grow your hair like that in the commando unit? What’s that all about, have you been on leave? Be careful the MPs don’t catch you, Kastina is full of them. What? Is there a Golani base there?” Gabi didn’t respond.
He got out of the car at Guvrin Junction, just as darkness fell.
“Where do you need to go?” the driver asked, apparently sensing his hesitancy. “Are you sure here is good for you?”
“Sure, sure it is, thanks,” Gabi answered, not turning to look at the man.
“This area is a bit of a hole,” the driver continued. “There’s nothing here. Who knows when another car may pass by. Where do you need to go? I don’t mind going out of my way a little.”
“It’s okay, thanks,” Gabi said, and the man let it go and drove into his community, the sound of the car’s exhaust gradually fading until only the silence remained. And he didn’t have to wait long after all, a Peugeot 404 pickup truck was approaching from the opposite direction of the one he had just come from. Moments before the vehicle reached him, Gabi Kupper’s mind wandered to the earthquake from that morning, the feeling of sand moving beneath him, his helplessness in the face of nature’s unbridled power. What if some subterranean plate had decided to move with a little more force? He’d have been buried under the sand in a flash. Inadvertently, Gabi held out his thumb at the two circular white lights that chugged toward him.