by Jemma Wayne
“Danny, when are you going to forget this cold weather rubbish and come make some money for Israel?” Ittai, one of the men in the group, asks me that Friday when I arrive at Orli’s. Ittai has been there to show her the plans for the new building he is designing and welcomes me with a slap on the back. He is dark skinned, of Moroccan descent, and slim-built, wearing jeans that slip below his waist. “Or you could be my backer Danny? Handle the business while I create brilliant architecture. What do you say?”
“I say no,” Orli interrupts. “He is going to open a gallery for me.”
“Let’s do it, all of it,” I joke, noticing Orli smile with a qualification that I cannot yet interpret.
“So come to Israel,” Ittai presses. “It’s a good time. The shekel’s growing strong now. It is crazy what’s happening. And you know, Danny, Israel is the greatest country in the world.”
Orli drives us to her parents’ house. I am yet to take the wheel in Israel despite my many trips here and am glad to avoid it still – the drivers are nuts. Occasionally pausing to add her own horn to the bedlam, Orli is telling me about her family. “My mother will be offended if you don’t eat much,” she warns me. “But don’t wait to be offered everything like you did when you first came to my apartment, otherwise she’ll think you are arrogant. When you go to someone’s house, you must help yourself.”
“But I don’t know them. I can’t just make myself at home,” I protest.
“So you’d rather make my mother get up and serve you? No, you should help yourself.”
“Okay, I’ll be sure to snoop in all the kitchen cupboards.”
“My father will want to talk politics. He was a great man in the intelligence you know. He only retired last year. He likes Britain. He used to like your Tony Blair.”
“I did not used to like my Tony Blair.”
She senses me mocking her speech and prods me in the ribs. “He was a great friend to Israel.”
“Really?”
“You don’t know?”
“What about Cameron?”
She laughs. “Ask my father. I will enjoy it.”
“Will your brother be there?”
Orli has talked a lot about her brother. He is younger than her by just over a year but she speaks of him as if they grew up in tandem, as if every experience she’s had is one he’s shared. I can’t help but feel a little jealous, cheated that I’ve met Orli so late.
“No, David’s still away on miluim. Reserves,” she explains. “His call up is always for a long time because he’s a pilot, but he’ll be back at last next weekend. I wish you could stay to meet him.” Her face has grown animated at the mention of her brother. “He’s a songwriter too, of course. He plays guitar. When he’s not working at the airline he writes the most wonderful songs. Here, listen.” She inserts a CD into the car stereo and beautiful, sad music spills out of it. We are both silent as we listen. There is something about David’s song that demands silence. I don’t know what the words mean but they make me want to embrace Orli, to protect her, and simultaneously they make Orli withdraw, as if the music is pulling her away, or she is remembering something, or trying to figure something out. I don’t interrupt. We listen to the rest of the track and then turn the CD off. By the time we arrive, joviality has been restored.
Orli parks and watches with amusement as I climb out of the car, balancing the bunch of flowers I’ve spent almost half an hour choosing, convinced irrationally that my selection will define her family’s impression of me. Orli’s mother Ariella smiles generously at the conservative tulips. It is the same smile as Orli’s. She pours me a drink before I have a chance to fetch it myself but Orli nods that this is allowed. Then the two of them show me around the house and I spend a long time inspecting the photographs: a practically blonde infant-Orli clambering on top of her smaller brother; the two of them aged ten or 11 running through a park somewhere; an already-beautiful teenaged version of herself standing proudly next to her now gangly but athletic looking playmate, the two of them always grinning, always with their arms around each other, tangled like spaghetti. I can see that it will be hard not to like David.
We sit down and a boy around 12 years old saunters into the living room. “Muaz!” Orli declares, enveloping him in a hug. The boy is clearly happy to see her but he leans away slightly, patting her back with exaggerated slowness. In a year or two he will not tolerate such a display from female relatives. He grins though as she ruffles his hair.
“So short?” she demands in English.
“So cool,” he answers.
She kisses him firmly on the cheek leaving a smudge of red and he rolls his eyes but allows her to pull him near to her on the couch. They are comfortable together. Close. “Danny, meet my nephew,” she says.
But he is not her nephew. He has dark hair quite unlike hers, dark skin, and even darker eyes. Plus she has only one sibling, David, unmarried, without a son. Ariella looks to me for reaction, but I try to give none other than to say, “Shalom”.
Orli has warned me about Muaz. He is adopted, taken as a baby from an orphanage on the border. “His name means ‘protected’,” Orli has explained. “That’s what my parents wanted to do.” It is noble, but from the way Ariella is watching me I can’t help but wonder if they sometimes experience prejudice about this, if it was a decision they have had to defend.
It is a good half an hour before Orli’s father, Nadav, arrives with both of his parents and their Filipino carer in tow. As soon as he enters the house it is all noise. Muaz is excited to relay something to Nadav that I don’t follow, but Nadav wants to make sure his parents are seated comfortably, and he takes seriously the role of host – bringing out the wine, telling me about the Israeli groves where the grapes were grown, pointing out a new piece of art and relaying the story of the artist behind it, the architecture of the shop from which it was bought and the history of the man who sold it to him. He has an incredible memory for detail and I marvel at the interest he shows in everything. Nothing is dull to him. Nothing overlooked. I am glad that I am able to say Amen at the appropriate pauses when he leads the Shabbat prayers, and both he and Orli smile approvingly when I get up to help Ariella bring in the dishes from the kitchen. Nadav carries dishes too, though in his hands the full bowls look small and irrelevant. He is tall and appears more European than Israeli, a pair of glasses and blazer making a change from short-sleeved shirts. He takes a pocket watch out of his jacket before removing it to sit down. I would like to call him Doc, or Prof. But I don’t yet.
We eat. And while we eat, we talk. They seem both interested and a little pitying of my life in London. I am not used to this. ‘Investment banker’ is usually enough to tick parental boxes. There is rarely a presumption that I should want anything more, or different. It endears me to them. I feel strangely at ease.
“You should come to Israel,” says Nadav. “For the young ones here, it is difficult – computers, science, technology, yes. But it is hard to make money if you don’t have some money. It’s different for you. There is much opportunity for someone like you.”
“I’m thinking about it,” I say, not asking what kind of person Nadav assumes I am. “I am thinking about it.”
“Your mother wants to keep you?” asks Ariella.
I laugh. “And my sister.”
“Of course!” She pats my hand conspiratorially. “Orli and I plan to keep David forever.”
“And what about Orli?” I laugh. “Is she free to go, or shackled too?”
“Ah, but daughters never really go,” says Ariella. “A daughter is forever.”
“It’s only us men who disappoint,” says Nadav mischievously.
“I am a constant disappointment,” I agree.
“Constant,” smiles Orli.
The evening rolls on and soon it is late. Orli has suggested going out after dinner, perhaps to meet Robert and Debbie at a bar, or to a salsa club where some of her own friends are heading. But I am happy sitting with her family. The
conversation has moved to politics, to the Kerry talks, to the third group of Palestinian prisoners just released, to the anger about murderers walking free. I don’t know enough to offer much of an opinion, especially not to a man in the intelligence, but I am asked. My sources for information are limited to the particular slant given by news reported in British nationals, and to the pages of the Jewish Chronicle that my mother buys. My gut feeling is that the release is tough, but necessary.
“You are right,” says Nadav. “But you can understand the hysteria. These are criminals, terrorists, with Israeli blood on their hands. We spent a long time finding these men.”
“And for many people it is very emotional,” interrupts Ariella. “Imagine somebody killed your wife, your child. Brutally killed, hacked to death, lynched. And then they are allowed to just go.”
“And arrive to a hero’s welcome,” adds Nadav.
“But not all of them are murderers,” says Orli.
Nadav waves his hand. “Three. Three on this list were not murderers. We send our children out to fight, to protect us, and then we give them back their killers. It is crazy.”
“There are of course many factors that lead us to this situation,” says Ariella. “Many difficult, uncomfortable factors.” She looks at Muaz and smiles reassuringly. I had forgotten about Muaz and wonder if he minds, if he even knows where he is from, who his parents were, what they may have thought of this conversation.
“But, you are right, Danny,” Nadav continues. “It is also necessary. For peace. The problem is, too many Israelis don’t understand this. There is Tel Aviv. And then there is the rest of Israel. And this stupid Bibi-” He shakes his head. “It is so complicated.” He looks up at Orli.
“Abba-” Orli interrupts, but he continues.
“Do you know, Danny, some boys now refuse to join the army at all, or they find some reason to get out of it. They pretend to be mad, or disabled or something like this. My generation, we fought to secure their future and now they refuse to protect it. It’s something every Israeli must do, for his people. A man who doesn’t go to the army is not a true Israeli man.” He stops. “That’s all I want to say,” he assures Orli.
She nods assent. “I could never respect someone who didn’t go to the army.”
“Did you go?” I ask her, realising we haven’t spoken about this before.
“Of course,” she says, glancing at Muaz.
Ariella holds up her hands. Have we eaten enough, she wants to know.
Collectively we clear the plates away and conversation returns to lighter topics – the new restaurant that has opened on the other side of Tel Aviv, the play Ariella saw the night before, how much they all miss David. But I only nod now and then and let the talk continue around me. My mind is stuck on what Nadav said about the army, how it is a defining part of being Israeli, of being a full, whole Israeli. How it is something each family does, for his country, for his people, a gift of one’s own to protect all. To protect me, too. If I come here. Or even if I don’t. Because of course it is my haven even now, it is all of our havens, even my mother’s and Gaby’s, just in case.
“I want to join the army,” I say, as we sit down with coffees in the lounge. “To come here, and join the army.”
Orli furrows her brow. Nadav turns towards me and Muaz rolls his eyes. But before anybody speaks, the phone rings and Ariella goes to the hallway to answer it, so I’m not sure if this is the reason for the silence that follows or if I have said something offensive, something stupid and naïve.
And then it comes.
A scream. So loud that, at first, I think it is a siren.
It is shrill and circular, laced with urgency. It impels me to get out of the way, to move, to run. But around me people are already running: Orli and her father. They are racing out of the room, hurrying to the source of the wailing, rushing to Ariella.
A moment later there is a second scream. Tortured, twisting. Rising and falling. Gasping for breath.
And below that, the haunting sound of heavy male sobs.
Across the table, Nadav’s parents are rising to their feet, Muaz is already at the door, even the carer has mobilised. I don’t want to be rude, to intrude, to impose myself in family disaster, but I have to go to Orli.
She is sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her mother.
Orli’s father – Doc, Prof – is on his knees. His tall back is hunched, his head lowered, grey dipped downwards. He holds the phone weakly against his ear.
His parents are caressing Ariella’s head. Muaz is trying desperately to grasp her hand, but she is pushing him away. Her cries are still loud. So loud.
Orli looks up.
“What’s happened?” I mouth to her silently.
But she shakes her head. She gasps again for air, for a breath. Tears leave tracks down her previously unblemished cheeks. And there is something else, something lost. I kneel down, put my hands around her face, let her weep into them. And of course I know.
I delay my flight until after the funeral. David’s body arrives wrapped in blue and white. There are tens of people willing to carry him and hundreds to help Nadav suffer the sound of the first thud of earth that it is his duty to pile on top of his son. Ariella clutches his arm and half-stands, half-sits, as if she is no longer sure if the dirt is above or below. Orli stands alone. I wanted to be with her at the funeral but she refused, determined to be strong, like her brother. Now the empty space next to her – the space I know David has always occupied – makes her look so vulnerable that I inch forward.
The earth builds up slowly as the closest relatives add their contribution to the grave, but then a line of men, Ittai and some of Orli’s other friends among them, swell forwards and as quickly as they can they finish the job, piling up the dirt until long after the last blue of the flag can be seen. Some of the men weep. They carry the world as they have carried David, but their strength is not enough to mediate calmly between life and death, even when the clash between them is so frequent. There are no suits or ties, no formalities to protect them from the rawness of what they face. Only I am dressed smartly and it makes me feel removed, an outsider. Orli glances behind her to where I am standing. During her eulogy she managed to speak without flinching, to tell of David, to do him justice; but now her legs shake and I am only just able to catch her before her knees buckle. She feels slight in my arms, as though the tip of a breeze could blow her away, but by the time we reach the car my arms are aching. Heaviness is something that has crept into us.
I place Orli into the passenger seat. I have accepted the challenge of driving her green Corsa and attempt to turn the key with confidence, but the news comes on as soon as I start the engine. The rocket attack on David’s helicopter has been all over the bulletins since it happened. I switch it off. Orli has asked me not to tell her what is being reported, what reprisals are being carried out in David’s name.
“Find me some music, Daniel,” is all she says through the silence.
I am afraid of hitting the news again so I switch the stereo over to CD. A soft melody sings out of it, peaceful, soulful, appropriate. I am pleased with my selection. But a moment later Orli lets out a strained sob, she clasps her hands to her stomach as though she has been punched there, as though once again she cannot find a breath, and I realise that the music is David’s. Again I reach for the dial but this time Orli steadies my hand.
“No,” she breathes with difficulty. “Leave it. Listen. I want you to meet my brother.”
So we listen, and though I still cannot translate the sad, haunting words, it makes sense, like in my dream, the feeling makes sense, and I am sure that I understand it, this song, that Orli loves, and her dead brother wrote.
***
Now
6
Udi hauls his army uniform down from the top shelf of his cupboard and sets about shaking it free from sand. It hasn’t been washed since he took it off 11 months earlier, despite his mother’s hunt for it. He doesn’t
quite know why he stuffed it up there so rapidly but suspects it has something to do with the blood stain on the sleeve and a desire never to wear it again.
It wasn’t this way the first time he prepared for miluim. Then, less than a year after he’d quit the army, it hovered before him like a college reunion, a chance once more to be brothers-in-arms. Now he has been to funerals of such brothers who thought they were invincible. Now he seldom sleeps a whole night, the churning of a pipe or the whirring of a fan reminding him of other sounds, noises that Ella cannot know. It is not PTSD. He doesn’t wake from nightmares in a cold sweat and his heart rate doesn’t jump up when he thinks of it, when he thinks of what happened. But it is in his mind every day, exploding afresh. And miluim seems now like something that should be less ordinary than a trivial item of post.
He picks an encrusted lump of something he cannot identify off the bottom of his combat trousers and pulls them on. His mother has insisted on driving him to the base and she will be hovering outside his room any minute now. She has been treating him like this, like a piece of wedding china, ever since his call up arrived, or maybe it has been since he told her about London but the weeks that followed were so full of planning that he didn’t have time to make the distinction. A month on, he is still waiting for a response from the British Embassy and her attention is beginning to suffocate. One evening he told her this, told her that she was smothering him, told her that she was interfering.
But was it her, or them? The army? Interrupting him, stopping him, controlling him again.
They tiptoe around each other now.
Udi takes a deep breath as he hears her voice from the hallway and pulls on the last of his uniform before slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Udi? Are you ready?” comes her entreaty again, shaky in her uncertainty of him.
