1.
GRANDPA ENLISTED IN the Golani infantry brigade at the age of eighty. This was six months ago, a little after Grandma Miriam had suffered a stroke in the shower and died on the spot. A month and a half later, he packed a bag, stuffing it with four undershirts, five pairs of underwear, a flashlight, two cans of sardines, a biography of Moshe Sharett, and anti-chafing cream. He also added a sweater. Not because he thought he might be cold, but because he continued to fear the woman he had loved even after she had passed away. Then he canceled his subscription to the Lev Cinema, paid his debt to the butcher and called Frankel to tell him he was quitting the Friday morning gang, and they should invite Yoske Cohen to take his place.
Dad thought Grandpa had lost his marbles, told him that’s not how normal people cope. “Go on a cruise to the Caribbean or something,” he grumbled at him the night before the draft. “You don’t have to help death along.”
Grandpa said it was the other way ’round, that he was trying to outrun death, but Dad wouldn’t listen. He took a black notebook and pen out of his pocket, and started jotting down numbers. “Eighty-year-old soldier. One thousand ninety-five days in the military. A monthly salary of 893 shekels.” Then he mumbled to himself a series of convoluted formulas only he understood. Dad had worked his whole life as a life insurance actuary, or as he once explained to me, “someone who determines how much a person’s life is worth.” It wasn’t merely a profession to him. It was a worldview, almost a religion. Every component of his life was configured into charts and numbers. Alma always joked that he probably had an equation that determined the value of their love.
Dad finished scribbling in his illegible handwriting and looked at Grandpa. “According to the average life span, your hereditary background and health, you have another four years to live, maybe a little less,” he determined with stifling indifference. “Wasting those years cleaning toilets and on guard duty is simply flawed logic, there’s no other way to put it.”
Grandpa didn’t have the tools to counter his son’s complex formulas. He owned a grocery store, and even then Grandma Miriam was the one who handled the money. He tried explaining that many his age were reenlisting, that the situation down south was more precarious than ever, that someone had to defend this country instead of all those deadbeat dodgers crowding the cafés in Tel Aviv. He also said we had absolutely nothing to worry about. That he’d go to general boot camp like Yehuda from the doctor’s office and then pursue a desk job at the army headquarters.
“The paycheck isn’t too great, but even a few shekels is something. That way I can also help you out, Yermi,” Grandpa said, and immediately realized he’d gone too far.
“Obviously it’s just a suggestion,” he said, shifting into damage control. “You don’t have to …”
“I won’t take a single shekel from you,” Dad declared, shutting down any further discussion of the debts. “If Mom were alive, you wouldn’t dare enlist.”
“True,” Grandpa admitted. “But she isn’t.”
Dad left the room, and Grandpa went back to packing his bag. He tried zipping it up, but his hands were trembling and the bag fell off the bed, photos of Grandma Miriam scattering across the floor. I helped him put everything back into the bag only to see him empty it out onto the bed again a moment later.
He wouldn’t stop saying something was missing, but he didn’t know what.
2.
[email protected]
July 16, 2009, 04:45:02
Subject: Hi Yuli
How are you?
Get back to me when you read this.
Best,
Alma Rosenblum,
Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi
3.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, on the way to the Reception and Sorting Base, Grandpa and I listened to Kol Yisrael. The broadcaster was interviewing some guy who had hiked the Israel National Trail with nothing but a hundred shekels in his pocket and two pairs of socks.
“I should add that to my list,” Grandpa said and cleared his throat.
“You know what I regret not having done?” he said when he realized I wasn’t going to ask.
“What?” I asked reluctantly, and he started listing the items slowly in a monotonous voice:
Hiking the Israel National Trail.
Eating Mom’s gefilte fish again.
Visiting the Arad Visitors’ Center.
Finding the old grocery store’s sign. Maybe in the Jaffa flea market.
Tracking down Tamar Weitzman, my first high school girlfriend who went to America and disappeared.
Smoking a Cuban cigar.
Telling Golda that on second thought, she wasn’t to blame for the war.
He fell silent, waiting for my reaction, but I continued to look out at the road quietly. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about the list again, which I already knew by heart, the list of all the things he never did and now never would do. Because my grandpa, ever since I could remember him, never stopped talking about the day he’d die. He let everyone know he’d be out of here in no time, and he also liked telling people exactly when and how it would happen, including a detailed arrangement of the eulogizers at his funeral. Grandma Miriam refused to listen. She always said that if he dared bring his death into their home, she’d kill him herself, either with a frying pan or a rolling pin, whichever was closer. So he kept quiet in her presence. But when I was a kid, whenever Grandpa took me to the movies on a Saturday morning, he would start up again. He said I was the only one he could trust, and I listened silently, letting him go on and on until I could recite by heart his last day on earth like I could the whole team of Hapoel Kfar Saba F.C., or entire dialogues from my favorite movie, Giv’at Halfon. Carrying the burden, keeping my grandpa alive.
4.
A CORPORAL WITH round-rimmed glasses stood at the entrance of the reception base. “You’ve got your call-up papers?” he asked me. With a trembling hand, barely able to see a thing with his bucket hat covering half his face, Grandpa handed him his draft notice before I could get a word out. The soldier considered the draft slip and turned his gaze back to Grandpa. “No shit. You da man!” He slapped Grandpa’s shoulder. “It’s thanks to dudes like you that the people of Israel are still kicking ass. Yochai, come see this,” he yelled to a soldier next to him. “Another one joining the oldies. I’m telling you, these men are the real motherfuckers!”
Everyone around us started looking at Grandpa, who was awkwardly shrinking into himself. Then came a round of applause. I pulled him into the square inside the base and we sat down on a bench, waiting for his name to be called. I bought him a Diet Coke but he didn’t want to drink. He looked a little lost, as if in some state of pretrauma. An elderly man who had arrived with what seemed like his entire extended family stood beside us. Grandpa looked at the man’s children and grandchildren and wife, who was literally crying on his shoulder. I wanted him to stop looking at them, so I told him to check his bag to see that nothing was missing. He seemed happy that someone was giving him orders and promptly began rummaging through the bag, until finally he announced he had forgotten to pack a towel.
“Don’t worry, cozy up to the CSM and he’ll fix you up with a towel in no time.”
Grandpa nodded and then asked: “What’s a CSM?” I told him it was short for “company sergeant major,” to which he replied they had just called them “sarge” when he served in the science corps sixty years ago. After a moment he added, “I haven’t slept outside the house in years.”
“You can still change your mind. Just say the word, and we’ll drive back to Ramat Gan and have a falafel at the Georgian’s.”
He feigned a smile. Five minutes later, the name Zvi Neuerman flashed on the big electronic board. A soldier with a green beret appeared from within the crowd, picked up Grandpa’s bag, and requested that he follow him. Grandpa put his hand on my shoulder, turned around, and started walking toward the bus. He didn’t even say goodbye. He wasn’t fond of goodbyes and didn’t really know how to go about them. When the doctor at the hospital had told him to say a final goodbye to Grandma Miriam, he stared at her for a few minutes and said he was just popping out for a moment to buy a pretzel. He didn’t come back.
I followed him to the bus. He struggled up the stairs, lumbering slowly all the way to the back seat. I waved to him with both hands. He glanced at me, then quickly averted his gaze.
“They get old so fast, huh?” a woman standing next to me said. She had a high-pitched, slightly irritating voice, pretty curls, a blue dress, and black rubber boots.
“Totally,” I answered.
“What’s your excuse?” she asked. “Why did you make him enlist?”
“We didn’t make him, he wanted to.” On the bus, an elderly man sat by the window, obstructing my view of Grandpa.
“Why did he want to?”
“He said there were too many draft dodgers in Tel Aviv,” I said, wishing she’d just go away.
“You’re fucking with me,” she replied.
“Excuse me?” I looked at her. She was smirking, satisfied that she’d finally managed to catch my attention.
“Old men don’t sign up for the army because of draft dodgers in Tel Aviv.” She fished a pack of gum out of her bag and offered me a piece.
“I hate gum.”
The bus started crawling along, all the old fogies waving at their families. All except for my grandpa, who was hiding among them. The bus left the terminal and was instantly replaced by another one. I was beginning to feel hemmed in. Everyone was standing too close to one another. Too close to me.
“Say,” the woman started up again. Wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace. “Why did you guys even let him enlist? Got fed up taking care of him?”
“Are you one of those Checkpoint Watch women? What do you want from me?” I asked. My throat was dry. The air rebelled, refusing to enter my body.
“I’m from Checkpoint Watch and the Mizrahi Coalition Against the Conscription of the Elderly,” she said and snickered. “Just kidding, sweetheart, honestly. Why so serious? Just say you can’t be bothered to look after your grandfather. It’s fine, really. Between you and me, we’re all a bunch of assholes here.”
I took a deep breath.
“Hey, are you okay?” Her tone lost its sarcastic edge. “You look really pale.”
“I’m fine,” I answered with a stifled voice. “Just a touch of asthma.”
“You don’t have an inhaler?” she asked. I searched my pockets. It took me a few moments to realize I actually didn’t.
“I have to get out of here,” I announced, and started scurrying toward to the exit. She yelled something, but I couldn’t hear. I was already outside the reception base. The way to the parking lot was longer than I had remembered. I made it to my car and found a bottle of sun-scorched water lying on the back seat. I downed it in one gulp. Then I turned on the air conditioner to full blast. A soldier who was passing by knocked on my window, miming if everything was okay. I gestured yes and released the hand brake. I just wanted to get out of there. I rolled out of the parking lot and pulled over at the first bus stop. It was empty. It took me a few moments to catch my breath. Once I managed to pull myself together, I headed to the call center downtown. The shift manager, a guy who had been two grades below me in high school, said it would be the last time I showed up late without notifying him.
5.
[email protected]
July 17, 2009, 02:12:35
Subject: Re: Hi Yuli
An Israeli traveler stopping by our office left behind a two-month-old copy of Yedioth Ahronoth. I have no idea why he had carried it around with him for so long. In any case, I saw Miriam’s name in the obituaries. I’m so sorry. She was a lovely woman. It’s true we didn’t always get along, but she really was a wonderful woman.
I hope you and your father are okay. Did you change your number? I called but it said the number was disconnected. Honestly, I’m not even sure this is the right email address.
Best,
Alma Rosenblum,
Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi
6.
[email protected]
July 17, 2009, 11:56:20
Subject: Re: Hi Yuli
Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:
[email protected]
Technical details of permanent failure:
Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the server for the recipient domain gmail.com by gmail-smtp-in.l.google.com. [2607:f8b0:4001:c1b::1a].
The error that the other server returned was:
550-5.1.1 The email account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try
550-5.1.1 double-checking the recipient’s email address for typos or
550-5.1.1 unnecessary spaces. Learn more at
550 5.1.1 http://support.google.com/mail/bin/answer.py?answer=6596 q18si1996584ico.33—gsmtp
7.
[email protected]
July 17, 2009, 11:56:20
Subject: Re: Hi Yuli
Why didn’t it send??? I need to talk to you.
Best,
Alma Rosenblum,
Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi
8.
[email protected]
July 17, 2009, 12:16:34
Subject: Re: Hi Yuli
Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:
[email protected]
Technical details of permanent failure:
Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the server for the recipient domain gmail.com by gmail-smtp-in.l.google.com. [2607:f8b0:4001:c1b::1a].
The error that the other server returned was:
550-5.1.1 The email account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try
550-5.1.1 double-checking the recipient’s email address for typos or
550-5.1.1 unnecessary spaces. Learn more at
550 5.1.1 http://support.google.com/mail/bin/answer. py?answer=6596 q18si1996584ico.33—gsmtp
9.
GRANDPA CAME HOME for the weekend. When Dad and I went to visit him, we found him sitting alone on the roof. Stripped down to his underwear and white T-shirt, he had placed his black army boots near the entrance to the balcony and hung his uniforms on the clothesline. He held an IWI Tavor rifle in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other.
“I see they were generous with the equipment,” I said to Grandpa, who turned his head to me, nodding contentedly. Dad pulled up a chair and sat down beside him silently.
“Well,” I asked, “how was it?”
“Grueling,” he replied. “Especially in the reception base. They’re worse than the Social Security office, believe me. Just filling out the forms at the sorting officer’s took me four hours.”
“What forms?” Dad asked, to which Grandpa smiled. “I assumed you’d want copies,” he said, taking out a few folded papers from his pocket. “Don’t worry, the sorting officer said it was routine protocol. To make sure you didn’t send me off to the army just because you didn’t feel like forking up the money for a retirement home.”
Dad skimmed through the forms. “Congrats, looks like you signed a terrific contract.”
“I actually didn’t even read it.”
“I can tell,” Dad said. “Just so you know, if you happen to be dying as we speak, or get Alzheimer’s, the army won’t have to pay you a single shekel. That’s one upstanding organization, your IDF,” he said to me, and sighed. Even two years after my discharge, to him I was still the commander in chief’s official representative. Dad unzipped his black fanny pack and fished out a few papers. “Like I thought,” he said, “we’re going to have to get private health insurance.” He handed Grandpa a pen and a few folded forms.
“Your son is tougher than the squad commanders at boot camp, huh?” I said to Grandpa, after which Dad shoved a few forms into my hand as well.
“What, I’m being drafted again too? Last time I checked I already served my stint in Golani,” I said.
“Employment and bank forms,” he explained. “I’m guessing you haven’t noticed that you’ve been working for two months without getting paid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your salary hasn’t been transferred to your bank account. You’ve been volunteering at the call center, which is nice of you, but not what I’d call financially sound. Go ahead, what do you care, it’s always good to fill out forms,” he said, and meant it. Dad was the one person in the world who liked bureaucracy. I don’t mean he learned to live with it. He liked bureaucracy the way he liked pistachio ice cream and organized tours of Kibbutz Kfar Blum. Something about the meticulous order, the unambiguous questions, soothed him. I filled everything out in a few seconds, but Grandpa took Dad’s rebuke to heart and carefully considered each and every sentence.
“Does this form also cover injuries sustained under operational circumstances?” Grandpa asked. “War, covert missions, etc.”
“I’m not sure a rusty stapler falls under the category of operational circumstances,” Dad said with a smile.
“What stapler?” Grandpa puzzled, turning his gaze to me. “Golani is no joke. You more than anyone should know!”
Dad and I laughed. Grandpa didn’t understand why.
“Who’d recruit you to Golani?”
“They already did. They’ve opened a new training course,” he replied, and went back to the forms.
“What are you talking about?” I asked him, hoping he’d give some reasonable explanation before Dad lost it. Grandpa told us that once he finished signing all the forms, the sorting officer patted him on the back and said that a man like him could make an even more significant contribution. That it wasn’t every day a veteran in such great shape reenlisted.
“And you’re telling me you said yes?” Dad asked.
“Of course. If I’m called upon to serve my country, who am I to say no? The nice fellow said I was born to be an infantryman. Even said I had the makings of an officer. Can you believe it, Yuli? We could both end up platoon commanders!”
“You’re actually talking to me about Bahad 1? Officers school??” Dad cut him off and shifted his gaze to me. “Could you please explain to me how senior citizens are enlisting to Golani and I’m the only one who thinks the world’s gone mad?”
Grandpa took a sip of his coffee. He tried to divert the conversation by mentioning there was some of Grandma Miriam’s soup left in the freezer, and that we were welcome to stay for dinner.
“Pea soup won’t help you here,” Dad said. His face flushed red. Truth be told, at that moment, I agreed with him. I was also starting to feel that this whole enlisting business had gone too far, but I didn’t want to leave Grandpa to fend for himself.
“It’s not as if they’re going to deploy him to Lebanon tomorrow,” I said, trying to calm things down. “They’ll probably set him up with a suitable position, it’s a special unit for people his age, isn’t it?”
Grandpa nodded.
“How exactly is enlisting to Golani suitable for an eighty-year-old man, in any scenario?”
“They know what they’re doing. I bet they adjusted the whole training course for them, I’m telling you. Old people are doing crazy things nowadays. Just yesterday I read about a ninety-year-old Japanese man who ran a full marathon. Compared to him, Grandpa’s still a baby.”
“You truly don’t grasp the difference between a marathon and boot camp?” Dad yelled. “The army isn’t supposed to provide employment for bored widowers. How could you, who fought a war, not understand that?”
“Because you, who served as a student-soldier in the Tel Aviv headquarters, do understand?” I barked at him. “What’s the big deal? So he’ll pull a little guard duty. It’s better than lying in bed all day waiting for a stroke.”
Grandpa coughed. I could see by his expression that he was trying to hide the insult; with a few brief sentences, we’d practically buried him alive.
“I don’t know about you guys,” he said, “but I’m going to enjoy a nice bowl of soup.” Grandpa got up, took a few steps toward the stairs, and stumbled on a loose tile. His cup almost fell, and the remainder of his coffee spilled over his white shirt, staining it with black, moist grains. Dad rushed toward him. He picked him up gently, cleaned his hands with a torn tissue he fished out of his pocket. Then he went downstairs to fetch a wet kitchen towel. I offered Grandpa to help him down the stairs.
“Don’t. At eighty, a man should start learning to manage by himself,” he announced and descended the entire staircase, only to come back up because he had forgotten his rifle on the roof.
10.
[email protected]
July 27, 2009, 03:52:48
Subject: Re: Hi Yuli
You’re not getting my emails. I know. I got one of those automatic notices. But I’m going to keep writing you anyway. Okay? I can’t really explain it. I feel I need to, even if you won’t read it. Actually, maybe because you won’t read it. I know it’s silly. Trust me, I know, but since I saw Miriam’s obituary, I’ve been having all these thoughts but no one to share them with. It’s pathetic, I know, but what can I say, it’s the truth. Who am I going to tell? The Indians? The twenty-year-old backpackers? The Chabad rabbi who visits our offices every Monday and Thursday and still doesn’t understand how a mother can leave everything behind and move to India on her own?
So I’ll write you. Just a little. That’s my biggest flaw anyway, right? That I always put myself first. You said it yourself the last time we spoke on the phone. You said that the day I boarded the plane you realized I’d always put myself first. That you had always suspected it, but that my going to India proved it once and for all. Believe me, had I known that three months later you would stop answering my calls, I would never even have considered hanging up.
I tried calling you, as I’m sure you know. Five times this past week alone. You didn’t answer. Not assigning blame, just stating a fact. Surprisingly, your father did pick up. Actually, it’s not surprising at all. Pretending everything’s fine is practically his expertise. He told me Miriam fell in the shower. Strange, isn’t it? How a person can fall in the shower, and in a split second it’s all over. Just like that. He also told me your grandpa enlisted in that old people’s combat unit (is it actually called the geriatric platoon?? Has to be a joke.). Listen, I’m the last person who can criticize the country, but this sounds a bit wacky … What exactly are they going to do with them? Who are they going to fight? Hamas? Hezbollah? Your father didn’t explain. He never does. He wouldn’t talk about the debts either. I tried talking to him, believe me I tried. He probably doesn’t talk to you about it either. Or maybe he even told you it had been resolved. Sounds like him. What can I tell you, Yuli, I wish he’d confide in you, just a little. Not for your sake, but for his. Secrets rot the soul, it isn’t healthy to live like that.
This is so ridiculous. Writing to no one.
I’m going to stop now.
Best,
Alma Rosenblum,
Emissary for the Jewish Agency for Israel in New Delhi
11.
GRANDPA DIDN’T COME home the following Friday, nor did he answer his phone. I made a few calls to people I knew from the army and finally reached a welfare NCO at the Golani training base. After looking into the matter, she told me that Grandpa had been granted a lone soldier status. Having informed them he couldn’t live alone, he was being housed at the Senior Citizens’ Center in Rehovot. According to the NCO, he said he was being neglected by his family, and she subtly inquired whether social services were involved.
I couldn’t believe he had lied like that. Badmouthed the only two people in the world who looked after him. The day Grandma Miriam died, I quit my job at the restaurant I’d been working at before the call center, and Dad took a month’s leave from work even though he couldn’t really afford it. And despite the fact that for the past thirty years he and Grandpa had only been pretending to talk to each other. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of Alma, or maybe there are other reasons. Actually, I’m not even sure they know, but it was hard not to notice the distance between them; how they always settled for a hesitant handshake, like businessmen in a useless meeting. Dad tried laughing it off, said it was just the way of Ashkenazi families, ...
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