The Six-Day Hero (Israel)

by Tammar Stein

  “Nu, Motti,” my dad says. “You going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “What?”

  “Yossi’s mother told us you went to the fence at the border. That you taunted the soldiers there. Is that true?”

  “She’s exaggerating.” I kick a small pebble on the sidewalk and watch it ping away.

  “Did you go to the fence?”

  “Yossi is a tattletale,” I say hotly. “What’s he doing running to his mom and telling her this stuff about me?”

  My dad pins me with one of his looks. “Yes or no?”

  “Yes.” I look away.

  My dad rubs a hand across his face. He has the strongest hands of anyone I’ve ever met—what my grandmother always calls “good hands.” He just seems to know how to make things work, to fix things. That’s probably why he’s a carpenter. But today everything about him seems less certain, less steady. He looks tired.

  “Motti, you have a daredevil heart. But you also have a bright mind. You need to use that mind. This is not the time to play games with Jordanian soldiers. I don’t know where the situation is going.” There are beads of sweat on his upper lip, and a trickle of moisture runs down the side of his face. “You heard that amateur war cabinet at the post office. Right now, everything is tense.”

  “Yeah, Abba, sure. I hear you. But it wasn’t that bad. Yossi’s mom really exaggerated.”

  “I haven’t seen the situation this tense since ’56,” he says tightly. There was a war with Egypt in 1956, when I was one. “It’s not like when I was a kid,” he continues.

  My dad used to live in the Jewish Quarter in the Old City. The Jews and Arabs in the Old City got along pretty well in those days. I’ve grown up hearing stories of my dad’s good friend Daoud, a Jordanian guy. Back when they were kids, Daoud loved tinkering with model planes. Every time my dad went to his house, Daoud’s mother would feed them delicious treats that looked like little bird nests, with pistachios for eggs, dripping with honey. But they haven’t seen each other since the Independence War in 1948, when they were young men.

  “Don’t go looking for trouble,” my dad says. “Trouble finds you easy enough without your help.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. We come to a stop in the middle of the bustling sidewalk. “Motti, don’t try to be a hero.”

  But that’s exactly what I want to be. I stiffen and shake his hand off me.

  “Heroes die young,” he says. “Serve your country—not to mention your family—by living a good long life.”

  I shove my hands in my pockets, scowling at the sidewalk. I bet Eli Cohen’s family didn’t tell him that. They let him spy in Syria and have thrilling adventures saving our country.

  My dad sighs. “All right, let me put it another way. There are all kinds of heroes.”

  We cross the road, hurrying to get to the other side as a blue-and-cream colored Egged bus lumbers down the street. It belches a thick cloud of exhaust on its way past us.

  “A hero is someone who can rise above his fears and his problems, and help others. It’s not heroic to throw your life away. That’s a disgrace.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “In fact, we have a hero in our building.”

  “We do?” I know everyone in our building. I can’t imagine who he means. I try to picture our ancient upstairs neighbor Shlomo charging a sand dune in the First World War.

  “Mrs. Friedburg,” my dad says.

  “What?” I almost choke.

  “Oh, yes,” my dad says, in all seriousness. “She’s a tremendously brave and strong person.”

  “First: she’s tiny, not strong,” I say, ticking my points off on my fingers. “Second: she’s mean!”

  “Think, Motti! Think about what she’s been through,” my dad says, a little impatiently. “She lost everything: her country, her home, her family, her language, her profession. And still, she perseveres. It was devastating for my parents to flee from the Old City into West Jerusalem, but at least for them the language and culture was the same here. Mrs. Freidburg immigrated to a new land. She learned a new language. She made a new home after she lost every single member of her family. There aren’t a lot of people who would be able to do that. She’s a hero because she lives on.”

  That doesn’t sound like a real hero to me.

  “Do you understand?” my dad asks.

  I just shrug. I know my dad is smart, but sometimes he has weird ideas. Spies are heroes. Paratroopers are heroes. Little old ladies who complain about the heat are not heroes.

  My dad sighs. I can feel him looking at me in frustration. He pulls out a folded handkerchief from his pocket and mops the sweat on his face.

  “Do you think Saba and Safta can come for Shabbat dinner this week?” I ask to change the subject.

  “Good idea, let’s ask them,” my dad says. He ruffles my hair, and I know he isn’t mad anymore. But from the way his shoulders stay high and stiff, I can tell he’s still worried about the situation.

  We walk on, no longer talking.

  Chapter Four

  No More Teachers

  That night we finish dinner quickly. No one lingers at the table with the mood so tense. With the UN troops gone, the radio news announced, Egyptian troops have started moving into the region.

  “As long as Egypt doesn’t close the Straits of Tiran, they can mobilize their troops all they want,” my dad says. He’s in his usual seat, an orange upholstered chair near the living room window. He takes a deep puff from his cigarette.

  My dad quit smoking six months ago.

  “But if they close the water to Israeli ships, then we have a serious problem,” he adds.

  He’s talking about the finger of water from the Red Sea that reaches between Saudi Arabia and Egypt to Eilat, Israel’s southernmost city. It connects Israel to ships sailing from Africa. Eilat, on the shore of the Red Sea, is a popular vacation spot. Not that I’ve ever been there. The only holiday I’ve had was when my dad and I went to Tel Aviv to visit my cousin. But I’ve been learning a lot of geography at school lately, as my teacher, Moreh Dudi, uses current events in our lessons.

  “They’d be crazy to do that,” my mom says. She runs a hand through her short dark hair. She sits on the couch, one leg jiggling with tense energy. “You can’t tell a country it can’t send ships to its own port. That’s an act of war.”

  “The Arabs have been looking for a way to destroy us for nineteen years.” My dad grinds out his half-smoked cigarette into a small saucer he’s using as an ashtray. “Hate can make people unpredictable.”

  My mom clears her throat loudly. Beni’s walked into the room and is listening.

  They end their discussion, looking strained. I catch them looking at the framed photo of Gideon in his olive-green army uniform. The picture was taken at the end of his paratrooper course. He stands tall and proud, getting his insignia pinned on.

  No one has to say it. If there’s war, my brother will be fighting in it.

  That night I lie in bed, Beni’s soft breaths filling the room. I hear the low murmurs of my parents talking late into the night. Their stress seems to fill the apartment until I can feel it pressing down on me.

  * * *

  The next day at school, Moreh Dudi doesn’t arrive. We sit around waiting for him. Pretty soon, someone shoots a spitball, and the next thing you know, the whole class erupts. Spitballs are flying, chairs tumble over as the boys dodge, the girls shriek and smack at our heads.

  “Class!” screams Morah Pnina, the other seventh-grade teacher. “Enough!”

  We stop, turning to look at her with blinking, innocent eyes.

  Her hands on her hips, she takes a deep, aggravated breath. She’s a tall lady and tough, not someone to mess with.

  “Moreh Dudi has been called up to active duty. Gather your things. You are coming to my class. I will teach both seventh-grade classes until he returns.”

  I exchange goggle eyes with Yossi. There are forty kids in each class.

  Someone raise
s a hand.

  “Excuse me, Morah Pnina, how are we going to fit? There aren’t enough chairs in your class for all of us.”

  “You’ll make do,” she says, sternly. “Sit on the floor and be grateful for your education.”

  I grab my school bag. Yossi does the same. Morah Pnina nods approvingly at us.

  “Kids, we all have to adjust,” she says, more kindly. “We need to be strong and smart, and pray that everything will work out okay.”

  So we all press into the next-door classroom. It’s hot and stuffy. It’s hard to hear Morah Pnina over the rustling and shuffling of eighty kids. But we take notes, balancing our papers on top of books on our knees. Some kids share chairs, perching half a butt cheek on their side of the chair, bumping elbows as they write.

  “How long will Moreh Dudi be in the army?” someone asks.

  Morah Pnina is silent. Her face is pinched. She looks tired.

  “As long as he needs to be,” she says, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation about it.

  I wonder if she’ll dismiss us early, but she’s even tougher than I gave her credit for. She keeps us until the last minute before the bell rings.

  “Tomorrow, everyone come straight to my room. We are not going to let a small matter of politics get in the way of algebra!”

  When I go home for lunch, I find out that my teacher wasn’t the only one called up from the reserves.

  My mom has set the table, and there are only three plates out.

  “Where’s Abba?” I ask.

  “He’s been called up,” my mom says. “The radio announced his unit’s code.” She’s trying to sound matter-of-fact, but I can hear the worry in her voice. It’s called a silent mobilization. My father has told me about it. Each unit has a unique call name like “golden apples” or “singing nightingale,” something random and obscure. If, in the course of a news update, the announcer happens to mention the unit’s call name, it means they need to report to their commander immediately. To make sure no one misses the announcement, everyone who hears it is assigned three or four people to personally tell. My dad’s people are all in our neighborhood. All he needed to do was walk a few buildings over, knock on some doors, and then pack his bags and head out.

  If his unit has been called up, that means we’re one step closer to war.

  “Egypt has moved cannons to the Strait of Tiran,” my mom explains. “No Israeli ships are allowed past.”

  I’m still mulling over what this means for Israel and what we’re going to do next when Beni arrives from school, full of news.

  “Our principal wasn’t there today!” he cries. “He’s been called up.”

  “So has Abba,” I say.

  “Oh.” Beni wraps his arms around his middle. “Did the war start?” he asks quietly.

  “Tfu, tfu, tfu,” my mom says against the evil eye. “Nothing so bad as that.”

  It’s a strange meal with just the three of us. The small clinks of the forks and knives on the ceramic plates sound like thunder. My mother chews and chews, but hardly eats any of the food on her plate.

  “I’m going out,” I announce, pushing back my plate.

  “Be back before dark,” my mother says sharply.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Can I come with you?” Beni asks.

  “No.”

  “Pleeeease!”

  “No!”

  “And for the love of God,” my mom says, her voice low and deadly serious, “stay away from the border.”

  I race over to Yossi’s house through the narrow streets that separate our apartments. It’s quieter than usual. Hardly any buses running and no students milling at the bus stops. A skinny white cat dashes in front of me. I almost trip.

  “Stupid cat,” I mutter. I’m about to kick it, but I stop, remembering Gideon’s words.

  As if it can read my mind, the cat stops running and turns to look at me. It has clear green eyes. One of its ears has a notch in it, as if it had been ripped or bitten.

  “Scat!” I hiss. “Go away.”

  It doesn’t move.

  “Gideon isn’t always right,” I tell the cat. “I might still kick you.”

  It lifts a paw and licks it, as if daring me to come at it. I have to laugh.

  “You’ve got chutzpah, Cat—I’ll give you that.” It flicks its notched ear as if it’s winking at me. There’s a clang from across the street. We both turn to look at the sound. When I look back toward the cat, he’s gone.

  I walk the rest of the way to Yossi’s apartment, feeling green eyes at my back.

  Yossi’s mom opens the door, looking resigned to see me.

  “Motti,” she says.

  “Shalom,” I say. “Can Yossi come out?”

  Yossi is an only child. His dad was a taxi driver. When Yossi was a baby, his dad drove someone who asked to be taken to an Arab village. When Yossi’s dad got there, men were waiting for him. It took police three days to find his body. They never found the murderers.

  Yossi’s mom is very protective of Yossi. And ever since Yossi and I got into trouble for throwing grapes off the roof of their apartment building two years ago, she hasn’t liked me. She thinks I’m a bad influence on him.

  “Yossi can’t go out today,” she says in a flat voice.

  “Why?”

  I see Yossi pop his head out from the around the corner. He looks miserable.

  “I know what you did the other day,” she says, leaning close into my face. “War is coming. You can’t do stupid things like that now. One of you will get shot. And I won’t let it be Yossi!” She hisses the words, and I flinch as some spit hits my face. She braces her arm across the doorjamb, as if to stop me from physically crossing the threshold into their apartment. Her nails are bitten down to the quick.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I say, my shoulders hunched around my ears.

  “The Arabs are saying that the streets will run with Jewish blood. That’s not bad? Syria is mobilizing to the north, Egypt to the south. Jordan is a kilometer to the east. We’re surrounded.” She takes a ragged breath. “The history books will say the Jews held onto their country for nineteen years before they were scattered to the winds again.”

  Goosebumps race across my skin at her words. It can’t be that bad. It can’t.

  I lift my chin. “We’ll fight them back.”

  “Motti, if we mobilize all our soldiers, we have less than a hundred thousand. Egypt alone has more than twice that. With the other Arab armies, they have half a million soldiers. They have five times as many tanks and planes as Israel. And we can’t keep our soldiers mobilized. How was school without your teacher today?” she asks sarcastically. I don’t say a thing, my face a frozen mask. “Who’s going to drive the buses? Who’s going to work in the shops? We can’t keep it up.”

  “We’ll do whatever we have to do,” I insist.

  She shakes her head. “Syria sits on top of the Kinneret, our main water source. All they have to do is take control of it and wait for us to collapse. And then they will come in and slaughter us.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is true,” she says with finality. The door closes in my face.

  Chapter Five

  Pit Stop

  We can hear the shrill ring of a telephone coming from the upstairs neighbors. The Geffens are the only ones in our six-unit building who have a phone. There’s silence as they answer the call. Two minutes later, there’s a desperate knocking at our door.

  I open it to see Shira Geffen, the eleven-year-old from upstairs.

  “Your dad’s on the phone,” she says with breathless excitement. “He wants to talk to your mom.”

  My dad is stationed with the central command, less than half a mile from our house. My mom drops the pants she’s hemming and dashes upstairs in her slippers.

  The Geffens don’t mind when people call their phone to talk to someone in our building. For one thing, it means they always know the latest gossip. They were the first to f
ind out when my aunt Rachel had her baby and the first to know that Shlomo’s sister had passed away.

  Shira Geffen and I are in the same Scout troop. She’s skinny and tanned, with dark, curly hair that reaches the middle of her back when it’s not braided. Shira’s family is more observant than we are, so her mom always wears a scarf to cover her hair, and they keep strict Shabbat, not turning on lights or cooking on the Sabbath. We’re a little more flexible. My parents have been known to turn on a lamp and make coffee. Even though the Geffens don’t use electricity on the Sabbath, they love it the rest of the week. Shira told me that her family might get a television in their apartment. If they do, Shira promised I could come watch the shows.

  My parents talk on the phone for a few minutes, and then my mom comes downstairs looking relieved. It’s the first time she’s talked to him since he was deployed. Though he spent the past few days on base, he told her he thinks he’ll be able to come home soon.

  “His biggest complaint is the helmets,” she tells Shira, Beni, and me. “They’ve run out of the regular issue, so he got a British steel helmet from the First World War.” She snorts a little sadly. “Waste not, want not.”

  “My dad got the same kind of helmet,” Shira says. “He says it looks like he’s wearing a frying pan.” Our fathers have been with the same unit for nineteen years. Ever since they finished with regular military service, they’ve been part of a reserve unit that serves one month every year. Soldiers stay with the same unit for the rest of their military service until discharge in their late forties. Our dads are in a quartermaster unit, which means they’re in charge of supplies.

  Shira leaves to go back upstairs. We can hear her baby brother crying. Shira’s mom, Ofra, is nice enough, but she’s strict and yells at us boys if we’re noisy. The baby, Yoram, is a poor sleeper. If a rowdy kid accidentally wakes up the baby, you better believe our parents end up getting an earful over it.

  My mom folds the pants she’s working on and sets them aside. Then she notices the book lying on the end table by the couch.