The Six-Day Hero (Israel)

by Tammar Stein

It feels so normal. My friends are laughing and joking. They can’t tell anything is wrong. I can’t believe that so much sadness and shock doesn’t show on my face or in the very color of my skin.

  “Moishe found a shell,” Avi says with glee.

  Another tail fin for Moishe. I feel a faint echo of jealousy.

  “Lucky,” I say, trying to think of what normal people say in situations like this. “That’s his second tail fin.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember wanting one so badly only a couple of days ago.

  “It’s the whole shell. It never exploded.”

  “Wait, what?” I focus where Avi’s pointing.

  He’s right. It isn’t just a tail fin—it’s the entire mortar shell, half-buried in the grassy dirt. It’s as long as my arm, with a bright green shell and yellow Arabic writing. The black finned tail sticks up.

  Moishe bends down and scoops up a few rocks.

  “Watch this, guys,” he says. He whips his arm back and throws the rock. It pings off the shell.

  “What are you doing?” I say. The numbness around me starts to crack. Everyone knows you don’t mess with unexploded mortars. There are posters at school that warn people to stay away and call the police if they find anything. “Stop!”

  Moishe looks at me like I’m crazy. “What are you worried about? It’s a dud. It’s not going to blow.” He throws another rock and misses.

  “Don’t be a moron,” I say. “You’ve got to stop.”

  “Motti!” Shira comes jogging toward us. I don’t want her to tell everyone about Gideon. As soon as everyone else knows, it will be real. “We should go back,” she says, looking uneasy.

  “Brave Motti,” Moishe taunts. “What happened? A few days in the bunker turned you into a crybaby? Are you going to run off with your girlfriend?”

  “No,” I say hotly. “You’re acting like an idiot.” I realize suddenly that I sound like Gideon. The thought chokes me into silence. Shira reaches us.

  “Oh, yeah?” Moishe says. “Can an idiot make this shot?”

  “Motti,” Shira says, putting a hand on my arm. “We should go back.”

  “Don’t!” I yell at Moishe. Shira’s standing between me and him. I can’t stop it.

  “Watch this!” Moishe spins and whips his arm. A rock the size of a tangerine flies out of his hand. It sails in a low arch. My breath catches in my throat. It nails the half-buried shell. I hear a loud metallic chink.

  A split-second later, there’s a tremendous boom that almost knocks us down.

  Everyone covers their heads. We’re showered with dirt and stones. A few kids drop to the ground, curling in on themselves the way we practice in school in case we’re stuck outside in an air raid. Two kids scream in terror. I can see their mouths open, but for a few seconds I can’t hear anything except the ringing in my ears.

  I scan everyone to make sure we’re all okay.

  “Anyone hurt?” I shout. My hearing slowly returns.

  My friends get to their feet, looking pale and dazed. The dirt is raw and ripped in a small crater around where the mortar used to lie. We’re incredibly lucky. The mortar broke apart into several large chunks that missed us as they flew by.

  “Moishe, you’re an idiot!” Shira yells and smacks Moishe’s arm. There’s dirt in her hair and on her clothes.

  “No one got hurt, right?” he says defensively. He rubs his arm. Shira left a red mark. “That’s what matters.”

  “We have to get out of here,” Miki says, his eyes too wide. “Civil Defense will come to see what the explosion was about. Let’s go!”

  He’s right. We’re going to be in so much trouble. Boys drift away, eager to disappear. I turn to follow.

  “Motti, Motti,” Shira says, pulling on my arm. I shake her off. I don’t want to talk about Gideon. “Motti!” She tugs on my arm hard enough to stop me in my tracks. “Look at David.”

  David stands still, like a statue, fifty feet from us. There are clumps of grass in his hair and his arms are covered in a fine dusting of dirt, but he hasn’t moved to brush himself off. In fact, he stands unnaturally still. I don’t think he even ducked when the shell blew.

  “David!” I shout to him. “What are you doing? Let’s get out of here!”

  The police could be here any minute. We need to be gone.

  He stares at me, so I know he heard me. But he doesn’t move.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask Shira. But she’s gone stiff. The streaks of dirt on her face are stark against her suddenly pale skin.

  “Look,” she says in a small, tight voice. “Look what he’s holding.”

  Tucked under his arm, like a rolled up newspaper, is another bright yellow mortar. The black metal tail is like a starburst next to his chest.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hero

  “Put it down!” I shout at him. “What are you waiting for? Just put it DOWN!”

  David won’t move. His eyes meet mine, pleading for help, but his legs are frozen in place. His chest heaves as if he can’t get enough air. He must have picked it up before Moishe blew up the other shell. He probably thought he would take it home as a souvenir. Now that he knows it could be live, he’s scared to move in case it blows. The smallest nudge could jog the trigger wire into place. I can’t let myself think about what that mortar could do to him.

  “Shira,” I say, breathing heavily. “Go get help. Quickly.”

  I have never been so afraid in my life. My legs have gone leaden with fear. My arms are heavy at my sides. My throat is instantly parched. I can barely swallow.

  Without wasting a second, Shira turns on her heels, flying like the wind toward our neighborhood. David and I are now alone in the field. Where are the Civil Defense men when you need them?

  “It’s okay,” I croak. The words nearly strangle in my throat. I lick my lips and try again. “It’s okay, David.” I know that Gideon wouldn’t have been this scared if he were here instead of me. I know that the famous spy Eli Cohen was never this scared. I know that I’m not really a hero.

  But I also know that I will not leave my friend alone in the field, holding a live mortar.

  My legs disagree with me. They don’t want to move.

  I concentrate with all my might and manage to take one shaking step toward David.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, not taking my eyes off David. I imagine that Gideon is walking next to me. I picture his sturdy frame and loping stride at my side. I take another step closer to my friend. “See how I’m walking? We can do this. We’ll do it together.”

  David’s eyes cling to me. As I draw closer, I see that his face is shiny with sweat, his legs trembling from the strain of staying absolutely still.

  “It’s not a grenade,” I say. “It doesn’t matter that you picked it up.”

  He blinks.

  “It’s just a shell. A dud.” But we’ve both seen the other one explode. Still, I keep talking. “Moishe smashed the other one with a huge rock. This won’t be like that. It’ll be fine.”

  I take another step. David is five feet away. If the mortar blows now, we’re both goners. I step closer and raise my hand, reaching for him.

  “Give it to me,” I say hoarsely. “We’ll do it together.”

  David slowly moves a trembling hand. It’s like in a dream, a nightmare, when you need to move fast but everything around you feels like thick syrup, holding you back. The cold metal touches my hand. It’s heavier than it looks. My palm is so sweaty I’m scared I’ll drop it.

  “Slowly,” I tell him, my voice still strangled. “Nice and easy.”

  David nods faintly. As if moving through water, we kneel together and gently, so gently, lay the mortar on the grassy dirt. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to flinch.

  Nothing happens.

  I nod. “Well done. Now step away.” We’re still alive.

  David grips my hand tightly and slowly, carefully, steps away from the device. Our breaths saw in and out. The mortar remains inert in the
grass.

  We take another step back, then another, and then, as if our limbs have suddenly been unlocked, we run, our legs half buckling like noodles. We run and run, crying and laughing as we fly away on wings like eagles’.

  “Motti!” My dad is running toward us. He’s wearing a sweaty uniform, his hair disheveled. “Motti!” he shouts. “My boy!”

  Shira is a few feet behind him.

  “Abba!” I scream. “Abba!”

  Now I’m really flying. I launch myself at him. He catches me in his strong arms, his chest solid under me. We’re almost the same height. How have I not noticed that we are almost the same height?

  My dad presses me against him. His prickly, unshaven jaw rubs against my face. I don’t mind the scraping burn in the least.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe my son. When did you get so brave? My boy.”

  David has sunk to the ground, his legs unable to hold him. He’s covered his face in his hands, shaking in relief.

  “But I was so scared,” I say, my face hidden in his shoulder. “I’m not brave. I’m not a hero. I could barely walk.” I’m so disappointed in myself, I can taste the bitterness in my mouth.

  “What are you talking about?” My dad pushes me away from him so he can see my face.

  “You lost your favorite son.” The words slip out before I can stop them. They sound so childish, but they’re true. Gideon was the best of us. I hang my head, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m no hero.”

  His grip on my shoulders tightens to the point of pain. “Look at me,” he commands. He shakes hard enough to snap my neck up. “Look at me!”

  His blue eyes are bloodshot and watery. He has deep bags under them. They’re not even purple anymore. They’re like bruises, nearly black. He looks ten years older than when I saw him yesterday.

  “What I saw just now was one of the most extraordinary acts of bravery that I have ever seen. Motti, you almost killed me.” He blinks rapidly. “I was so scared for you. But you did the right thing. You did it knowing it could cost you your life.” For a second he loses the ability to speak. He takes a shaky breath and swallows heavily. “You did it to save your friend. You are the greatest, bravest boy I have ever met. Because you were scared. Because you did what had to be done despite that.”

  He pulls me toward him again and crushes me in his embrace. He shakes in my arms. He’s crying. My tough, strong dad is crying in my arms.

  “I thought I was going to lose two of my boys today. Oh, God!” It’s a prayer on his lips. “I am not strong enough for that.”

  So many feelings swirl inside me that for a moment, I can’t even understand what I’m feeling. But finally it becomes clear. Love. I feel so full of love that my chest is tight and my limbs are warm. I’m alive. I love my dad. And I am so grateful for both of those things.

  My dad lowers his head, shoulders bowed as if under a terrible weight. He closes his eyes, shuddering. After a moment, he visibly pulls himself together.

  “Abba,” I say. “It’ll be okay.” The same words that Gideon said to me the night before he returned to base. My brother was right about that, like he was about almost everything else.

  “Abba?”

  “Yes, Motti.” His voice cracks. He brushes his tears away with a rough hand. “Yes, you’re right. Come, your mom needs us to be with her.” He keeps one hand around my shoulder and holds out the other hand to help David to his feet. “Let’s get you home, David.”

  As I watch my dad struggle to hold himself together, to care for David, to keep me tucked safe under his arm, I remember what he told me before the war started. That there are all kinds of brave, all kinds of heroes. For the first time, his words make sense. In our own ways, all of us—my dad, my brothers, my mom, and maybe even me—have endured something that only the brave can face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mourning

  The next evening at 6 p.m., a cease-fire goes into effect. The war is over. At 132 hours, it is one of the shortest wars in history. Egypt lost more than ten thousand men, 90 percent of its air force, and $2 billion worth of its military hardware. The Jordanians lost seven hundred men with six thousand wounded or missing. Syria lost more than four hundred men. In those same six days, the Israeli army lost eight hundred of its soldiers and 20 percent of its air force. But it also reclaimed the Old City, and unified Jerusalem.

  Our apartment fills with relatives and friends who have come to sit shiva with us. Throughout the seven days of mourning, we’ll sit at home while those who knew Gideon stop by to remember him. The mirrors are draped in black sheets. The kitchen is full of food. Everyone brings photos and stories about Gideon—from his excellent test scores to the Scouts he led, to the soldiers who served with him in his all-too-short military career. They hug my mom, they sit with my dad, they reminisce with Beni and me about Gideon’s escapades.

  The afternoon of our first day of mourning, my cousin runs to our mailbox and brings up the mail. She hands a stack of envelopes to my grandmother, who begins to sort through the bills and correspondence. She suddenly gives a small scream. All the conversations fall silent.

  “What is it, Safta?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

  My grandmother holds in her hand a light green military-issued envelope, the kind that soldiers use for personal correspondence. The address on the front is written in familiar handwriting. Gideon has sent us a letter.

  He must have written it before the fighting started. With the chaos of the war, it took a while to reach us.

  My mom gasps. She lifts the envelope to her nose, inhaling deeply, searching for a trace of her oldest son.

  We crowd around the light green military-issued paper. My mom’s hands shake a little as she opens it. It’s as if Gideon has returned from the dead. I can’t help but shiver. It feels like God has let my brother write to us from the other world.

  With one hand placed over her trembling mouth, my mom reads the letter silently. Everyone in our crowded living room watches as she hands it to my dad. Beni and I stand waiting. Though my soul shakes with the desire to read it, I wait patiently as my dad reads, then rereads, the tidy handwritten lines, blinking his red-rimmed eyes fiercely. Then he hands it to me and Beni. We stand side by side, reading it together.

  To my dear parents: Our commander has told all of us to take a moment and write down a few lines to our family. He says it isn’t in case we die, but so that we’re clear about what we’re fighting for. I think he’s right. Not that any of us forget for a moment we’re fighting for our lives and our families, but it’s good for you to be at the front of my mind as we head out.

  I don’t think anything bad will happen to me. I hope that we will all see each other again. But in case we don’t, I want you to know how much I love you. I count being your son as my greatest blessing. You taught me about honor and hard work, and everything I am today is because of you.

  To Motti: I know that I am sometimes hard on you. I tease you. I push you. But it’s only because I see how special you are. Smart, quick, funny. Great things are in store for you. If for some reason I don’t come back from this, I’m still with you. I’m still your big brother, and I’ll be there with you no matter what comes. Listen to Mom and Dad. Take care of Beni. I love you.

  To Beni: I’ll never forget seeing your little face for the first time. I was twelve years old. Mom gave me this little bundle all wrapped in a blanket. Only your red face was peeking out. I just lost my heart. You and Motti are the best brothers that I could ever hope for. Listen to Mom and Dad. Don’t be too hard on Motti. I love you and I’m with you no matter what.

  All my love,

  Gideon

  Beni is a slower reader than I am, so I hold the letter steady, waiting until he finishes. When he nods, I hand the letter back to my parents, who immediately reread the precious lines. My mother’s lips move as she looks at the words, probably hearing them said in Gideon’s voice. Beni leans his head
against my chest as we watch them. I put my arms around his narrow shoulders, Gideon’s last words echoing in my mind.

  Soon the letter is passed from person to person—to my aunts and uncles and grandparents. Gideon’s message makes everyone cry.

  A choking sadness fills me. It hits me once more that I’ll never see Gideon again. We’ll never have another letter from him. I’ll never see his half-smile before he makes a joke, or the true smile that fills his face when he makes us laugh. I’ll never hear any more of the interesting ideas that he shared or be able to turn to him for advice. All gone. Forever.

  I’m desperate to get away from the well-meaning crowd. Swallowing back the tears gags me. I don’t want to upset my parents with more crying, so I slip out the front door, stepping lightly down the dim staircase.

  I have half-formed plans of walking to the stadium. But as soon as I’m out of the building, I find Mrs. Friedburg sitting on the front stoop. I almost don’t recognize her. The always impeccably dressed lady who spent a night in a bomb shelter without a hair out of place has her dress buttoned wrong at the collar. Her hair is unkempt. Instantly, I know she’s lost someone she loves too. She is a woman in mourning.

  “Who did you lose, Mrs. Friedburg?” I ask, kneeling next to her.

  She looks at me in shock. “Who did I lose? I lost Gideon. I lost our Gideon. That beautiful boy.”

  Now that the rest of my family has come to our apartment to keep my parents from sinking into despair, Mrs. Friedburg has fallen to pieces. She covers her face with her hands, weeping. I feel helpless to comfort her when my own grief chokes me. But she pulls me into her arms, hugging me tightly. I don’t swallow back the tears anymore. We cry and cry, mourning our loss together.

  * * *

  In the days following the end of the war, the grandest sense of euphoria sweeps through Jerusalem and the entire country. When a stranger passing us on the street pulls my mom into a big hug and kisses her cheeks, my parents and I hardly blink. Everywhere strangers embrace each other, feeling like one family. For the first time in two millennia the Jewish people have fought, have won, and have united the city that lies at the heart of our religious identity. Some Holocaust survivors, like our neighbor Mr. Pinsky, say that with this, they have finally forgiven God for what they endured.