The Six-Day Hero (Israel)

by Tammar Stein

  “Well,” Beni says, “good-bye, cat. Thank you for helping us yesterday. We will never forget you.”

  My six-year-old brother has said everything there is to say.

  “Amen,” I whisper.

  Shira nods. “Rest in peace.”

  I scoop from the mound of dirt next to the hole and shovel it all back in.

  My mom steps out on the balcony.

  “Motti, Beni, Shira!” she calls out. “Lunchtime!”

  Other parents have stepped out on their balconies, calling their children inside. It’s something they usually do in the evening, calling us back in after a whole afternoon of playing.

  “Coming!” I shout back.

  We head back into the apartment. I wonder if the bad feeling I’ve had all day was because I somehow knew the cat had been hurt and had died. Now that I know it’s dead, I expect that feeling to fade—the way that worry about an upcoming test goes away as soon as I take the test. Even before the grade comes back, the fear of the test itself is gone.

  But as we jog up the dim stairwell, our eyes adjusting to the gloom after the bright sun outside, that heavy feeling in my chest hasn’t left me.

  I worry about my dad and my brother. I worry about us. The snow-white cat’s fate only heightens my fear.

  After all, anything can happen. Impossible things.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gideon

  The next day, the fourth day of the war, Beni and I return to school. I’m glad to be back.

  “Your education comes first,” my parents always say. The Jews have a long history of being kicked out of the countries they lived in, so we have always revered learning as the one form of wealth that can never be stolen. Because while tools, money, and land can be taken away, knowledge cannot. So it doesn’t surprise me that school reopens the moment it’s deemed safe. No one, especially not our enemies, will keep us from learning.

  It feels good to be busy and to pretend that everything is normal.

  That afternoon my dad gets a few hours of leave. He’s stationed a few kilometers away from the front with the quartermaster unit. He hasn’t seen any fighting. Now that all the fighting has been pushed out of Israel and into the other countries, we feel much safer.

  More rumors trickle in about the terrible battle at Ammunition Hill. It might end up being one of the worst battles in this war, with hundreds of dead on both the Jordanian and Israeli sides. I can’t shake my fear about Gideon, but when we see my dad, he reassures us.

  He saw Gideon come through his base on the first day of the war. They managed to snatch a brief conversation. He doesn’t think Gideon’s unit had been assigned to go to the hill.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” my dad tells my mom. He’s sunburned and tired, with purple shadows under his eyes. “You should have seen him,” he says, his lips crooking in a smile. “He looked great. The whole unit was cracking jokes. They’re fine.”

  My mom has had a furrow between her eyebrows for days now. It eases for a moment at my father’s calm confidence.

  “I just wish we could hear from Gideon,” my mom says, not swept away by the wave of growing euphoria sweeping our city. “I heard that the Kellermans already had a letter from their son.”

  “You worry too much,” my dad says, patting her back comfortingly. “He’s too busy to write us right now. That’s normal. Our boys have pushed the fight so far into Jordan and Egypt that the generals are arguing about how far to go!” My dad’s eyes sparkle with elation. “I’m telling you, this war might end up being the best thing that ever happened to our country. The Old City is ours!” He shakes his head in wonder. “Two hundred years from now the Jewish people will celebrate this as a greater miracle than Hanukkah and Purim combined!”

  It’s almost unreal to hear that coming from my dad after the month of fear and stress that led up to the war. But he’s right that the news reports coming in are all amazingly, almost miraculously in our favor. Our military pushed the Egyptians literally into the Suez Canal. In Jordan, our forces drove the Jordanians out of the Old City and the West Bank.

  “Jerusalem is ours,” my dad repeats, his face flushed red with sunburn and excitement. “After two thousand years. Did you ever think you’d live to see this day?”

  He turns to smile at me. “After the fighting is over, I’ll take you there. I’ll show you my old house, my neighborhood streets. There’s no place on earth like the alleyways of the Old City.” I can see it: the five of us wandering through the streets, my dad pointing out his childhood hangouts.

  My dad returns to the base after a quick meal with us. He promises to try and see us again soon.

  * * *

  The next day is Saturday. The house is quiet. Ofra is mobile enough to take care of her children now. Our apartment has been blessedly free of Geffens since yesterday afternoon. I try to read All Quiet on the Western Front. It’s told from the point of view of a nineteen-year-old soldier who thinks that war will be a great adventure, but instead everything is terrible. One by one his friends are killed. Plus, there’s nothing to eat. After a while I put the book down. I never did manage to get it to Gideon. Maybe I did him a favor.

  We stay close to the radio, listening to updates about the fifth day of the war. The war is clearly winding down. There’s talk in the international community about a cease-fire. The Arab countries are starting to sound interested in declaring an end to the fighting. But until my dad and Gideon are home safe, we can’t rest.

  My mom is filled with a nervous energy. Since the Geffen children returned home, she’s been scrubbing floors, vacuuming rugs, dusting, and baking elaborate desserts from morning to night. It’s as if she was trying to dirty as many dishes as possible so she had more to clean. I think she was glad to have all those extra kids to keep her busy. But now that it’s Shabbat, she can’t do chores to keep herself busy. She just paces restlessly and keeps ducking out of the apartment to talk to our neighbors.

  By the time I give up on my book, my mom is setting out a platter of cinnamon-sugar rugalah that she baked yesterday. I reach for a cookie.

  “Only one,” my mom says. “The rest are for the Geffens. Ofra’s stitches are inflamed and she has to go back to the clinic. The kids are coming down here in a few minutes.” She almost sounds happy at the thought of chaos entering our apartment again.

  “Will they spend the night?” I ask. I wouldn’t mind having Shira’s company.

  “I don’t know yet,” she says, setting the platter down in the center of the coffee table. “It depends on what the nurse says. If the leg is very bad, they might keep her overnight. Otherwise, they’ll just give her penicillin.”

  When I hear steps in the hallway outside our door, I assume that the Geffen children are tromping down from upstairs. I slip a cookie in my pocket. Cookies don’t tend to last long around guests. A moment later, we hear a firm series of knocks.

  That’s not how kids knock.

  I suddenly feel a wave of goose bumps shiver down my back. The hair on the back of my neck rises.

  “Ima,” I say in a strangled voice. “Don’t answer that.”

  At the same time Beni comes out of his room rubbing his eyes, still wearing my old green truck pajamas. After lunch my mom insisted he take a nap, though he complained to high heaven that he didn’t need one.

  “I fell asleep,” Beni grumbles accusingly. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t open it!” I say at the same time that my mom pulls open the door.

  Two men in Class A olive-green uniforms stand in the hall. My skin prickles hot and cold. There is only one reason the army sends two soldiers in Class A’s to a family’s home.

  My mom just stands there, frozen.

  I stare at the young soldiers, my heart thumping in my chest as if I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff. A dark pit yawns below me.

  “Oh, no.” My mom raises a shaking hand to her lips. “No. Please.”

  “I’m very sorry,” says one soldier. He looks miserabl
e. He holds some papers in his hand. “May I come inside?”

  “No.” My mom shakes her head. “No!”

  “What is it?” Beni cries, looking in confusion from the soldiers to my mom and me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m so sorry,” says the first guy. “I’m here to tell you that Private Gideon Laor has fallen.”

  “No!” my mom shrieks, covering her ears. Her scream rips into me. It’s the sound of pure horror and grief. “I don’t want you here! Go away!”

  She starts to close the door, and the soldier puts his hand out to stop her. Beni, crying without even full understanding, runs to my mom.

  “Go away!” he yells at the soldiers, standing in front of my mom as if he could protect her. “Leave my mom alone!”

  She covers her ears, shaking her head “no” as if she can stop the news from reaching her, as if she can stop it from happening. Beni tries to wrap his arms around her, but she’s so far gone, she doesn’t even realize he’s there.

  Even as part of me knows it isn’t their fault, I hate the soldiers. We were fine, we were okay, until they showed up with their terrible, earth-cracking news.

  Across the hallway, Mrs. Friedburg opens her door. She takes in the scene, understanding the situation in an instant. She looks at me, her face suddenly haggard and old. She hurries past the soldiers, rushing upstairs.

  “I’ll take those papers,” I say numbly, walking to the doorway and reaching for them. The soldiers exchange looks. The first soldier hands them to me.

  “Can we come in?” the soldier repeats uncomfortably. “We usually sit and stay with the family until friends arrive. It’s not good to be alone with news like this.”

  “No,” my mom says woodenly. Her arms are wrapped around Beni in an automatic gesture of comfort. “Go away.”

  “We can’t stay if you don’t want us,” the soldier says, looking exhausted. “It’s your choice. But we’re here for you.”

  “Ima, it’s okay,” I hear Beni tell my mom. “They’re leaving. It’s okay, Ima.”

  My mom’s legs give out from under her and she sinks down to the ground, taking Beni with her. She’s still shaking her head, as if by disagreeing with the news she can change it.

  Then we hear Mrs. Friedburg and Ofra making their way slowly down the stairs. Ofra leans on Mrs. Friedburg’s shoulder, her leg bandaged and tender. But infected leg or not, she’s here ready to help.

  “We’ve got it,” Mrs. Friedburg says to the young soldiers, her German accent thicker than usual. “You boys go. We’ll handle this.”

  “Okay.” The soldier nods in relief. “Thank you.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?” I ask, breaking through the numbness.

  “He—he died,” one of them says awkwardly.

  “No,” I shake my head. “I mean, where? How did it happen?”

  “We don’t know too much yet,” the other one says. He’s short with wiry, curly hair. “His unit is the one that was caught in the Alley of Death.”

  The Alley of Death. I close my eyes and all I see is Gideon.

  The curly-haired soldier crouches down so that we’re eye to eye. “This war has cost us a lot,” he says in a low voice. “There isn’t a family in Jerusalem that hasn’t suffered.” He isn’t much older than Gideon. There’s a sadness in his face that seems ancient. “It’s only because your brother was strong and brave that we’re safe. That’s a terrible price for your family to pay. But truly, your brother died so that our country could go on.” I stare at his polished black combat boots. There’s a small scuff on the right boot. It makes him suddenly human. I can’t hate someone with scuffed boots.

  “When we stand before God and give an account of our lives,” he continues in a low voice, “we have to say what we did, who we helped, how we shaped the world and made it better. Your brother will be able to say: ‘I saved my country, I unified Jerusalem, I protected my family.’ ” I look at him, stone-faced. He meets my eyes. He swallows heavily. “There aren’t many people who can say that.”

  I don’t care about accounting before God. As far as I’m concerned, God has a lot of accounting to do before me.

  “How many families have you visited today?” I ask.

  The soldier shakes his head. “Too many.” He sighs. “You’re not suffering alone.” He squeezes my shoulders, as if to press in strength. Then he rises to his full height.

  As we speak, Mrs. Friedburg and Ofra lift my mom off the floor and guide her onto the couch. They sit Beni down and make him a cup of chocolate milk. They pour my mom a shot of brandy and force her to drink it. Their low, soothing murmurs calm the air. The platter of cookies sits on the low coffee table as if we’ve been expecting guests. As if my mom made food for the mourners instead of the other way around.

  “I’m deeply sorry,” the first soldier says.

  “You should go,” I say.

  The soldier nods, accepting my order. He extends his hand and automatically I take it. “Gideon was a great guy and a brave soldier.” He shakes my hand firmly. Then both men salute me. “The country will never forget his service, and the sacrifice he made so that we may live.”

  I stare at the soldiers. They’re saluting me like I’ve done something good, but I haven’t done anything. None of this feels real to me. I wonder if I will wake up in my bed. Maybe none of this is real.

  They leave, disappearing down the stairs.

  I remain rooted in my spot by the door. I watch the scene inside my apartment as if I’m looking at someone else’s family, someone else’s story, someone else’s loss. Mrs. Friedburg has placed a mug of something warm in my mom’s limp hands. Ofra has pulled Beni into her lap, rocking and murmuring to him.

  Gideon, gone? I shake my head as if to banish the thought. Gideon, who is strong and agile and can race across the top of a chain-link fence, has fallen? The thought sends a shard of pain so deep into my heart that I gasp. I’m losing my balance; I’m going to fall into that black pit. What are the Three Musketeers without their best, strongest partner?

  I suddenly can’t bear it. I can’t stand to be in the apartment. I slip away through the open door, feeling like I’m going to be sick. Gideon, gone?

  The world has stopped making sense. I’m falling.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Explosion

  I don’t know where to go, what to do. My feet take me to the back alley behind our street. I sink down, elbows against my knees, leaning my face against my hands. I sit like that for a long time, not really thinking about anything. I don’t know how much time passes before I hear a little sound, something brushing against a pile of newspapers fluttering under a rock. I slowly raise my head.

  Yellow eyes stare at me. A spotted black and brown cat crouches near me. It flicks a white tufted ear. It has a scar across its face and its tail is short, as if it has been pinched off. This is a battle-hardened cat, not nearly as beautiful as the snow-white cat. Maybe only the toughest survive. It twitches its pink little nose. I stay as still as possible, barely breathing.

  Deciding that I seem harmless, it gracefully sits and lifts a paw. It licks and licks and licks, turning its little paw this way and that. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated, but I can’t seem to look away. I realize that the cat is tending to a cut. It hasn’t sailed through the war so easily after all.

  I dig through my pocket and pull out the crumbly rugalah. The smell of cinnamon turns my stomach. I can’t imagine eating again.

  “Here,” I say. My voice is hoarse, as if I’ve been shouting.

  The cat flinches at the sound. It stops licking and tenses, braced to flee.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say softly. “Eat this.” I place the rugalah halfway between us. Do cats even eat cookies?

  The cat puts down its wounded paw. It looks at the cookie, then at me, then the cookie. It’s clearly hungry. But it doesn’t trust me.

  I push myself away, scooting down the wall so I sit a bit farther back.

  �
�I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell it again. My voice is raspy and hoarse. “The food is all yours.”

  After a long pause, the cat daintily takes two steps and sits in front of the cookie. Its green eyes flick to me once more, and then it quickly snatches it and runs off with its prize, limping slightly.

  I sigh—happy that the cat took the food, sad that it didn’t trust me enough to eat it next to me.

  “Motti! Motti?”

  I blink, and the cat is gone.

  Shira’s calling. She comes around the corner of the building and stops when she sees me. My heart squeezes at the look on her face. She knows about Gideon. For one small moment with the cat, I had managed to forget. The realization that he’s never coming home hits me all over again. This is something terrible that will never be undone.

  “Everyone’s looking for you,” she says. “Your dad’s on his way home. We called the base.”

  I shake my head.

  “Motti, I’m so sorry.”

  I shake my head again. If I try to speak, then I’ll just cry.

  “You don’t want to go home?” she asks softly.

  I shrug.

  “Okay.” She nods as if I’ve clearly explained myself. “We don’t have to go right away.”

  I push myself to my feet.

  “Let’s go to the stadium.” My voice is rough and growly. She blinks in surprise. It’s not that I want to play soccer, but I can’t think of anywhere else to go.

  We walk in silence. I feel her looking at me with every step, but she lets the silence stay, which I’m deeply grateful for. I really don’t want to talk about it. As we approach the field, I see my friends. But they’re not playing soccer. They stand in a huddle, pointing and looking at something lying on the end of our field.

  I trot over to my friends. Shira hangs back. She is always shy around the rowdy boys I hang out with.

  “What is it?” I ask, coming up to the group.