by Tammar Stein
We fill the empty sacks. Once all the sand is used, we form a new line to hand the bags from the street to the building’s entryway and windows. I take a bag, turn to hand it to the person next to me. I freeze.
The man waiting for the sandbag in my hands is a black man wearing loose white robes and a soft white hat. He must be one of the priests from the Ethiopian monastery near our neighborhood. Jerusalem is full of churches, convents, and monasteries, some nearly a thousand years old. There are many types of Christian sects here—each faction of priests, monks, and nuns wearing distinctive robes that distinguish them from the others.
There isn’t usually much mingling between the priests and the locals. They keep to themselves, and we stay out of their way. The priest notices my hesitation. He smiles, bright white teeth flashing in his dark face.
“It’s all right,” he says in softly accented Hebrew. “All the neighbors are here to help.”
My heart swells with sudden happiness. Maybe the whole world isn’t against us.
My priest and I work hard. After we finish with this sand mound, we walk together to the next one. And the next.
By lunchtime we’re both sweaty and exhausted.
“Come, friend,” he says. He has a lilting accent that I find charming. It’s nothing like the sharp sounds of Europeans or the slippery inflection of immigrants from the Middle East. “Let us eat.”
“I can’t,” I say, wiping my hand across my face. Gritty dirt and sand itch on my sweaty skin. “My mom expects me home for lunch. She’ll worry if I don’t show up. She doesn’t even know I’m not at school today.”
“I see. Have you time for tea, then?” he asks, unperturbed. He’s been like that all morning. Calm and unhurried, though he worked steadily and efficiently, never slowing down, never wasting motion.
I’m so parched my throat feels like sandpaper.
“That would be great,” I say. “She won’t mind if I’m a few minutes late.”
I follow him to the monastery compound. The top of the gated entrance has a crest with a lion on it. We pass through the gate into an open courtyard. There are several priests there, sitting at tables under the shade of large palm trees. Several women, their hair covered with wispy white cotton scarves, serve the men with trays of tea and food.
One of the women approaches us with a tray. She looks about my mother’s age, with high cheekbones and a round, friendly face. The white shawl covering her hair and shoulders flutters in the slight breeze. I take one of the small glasses of dark amber tea from the tray. It isn’t kosher. My mom would say that I shouldn’t drink it. But I smile as I inhale the scents of cinnamon and cloves mingling in the steam that softly curls up from my cup.
I take a small sip, too curious about this African tea to pass up the chance to taste it. Sweet and rich—delicious. Though it’s hot, it glides down my throat and quenches my thirst.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s very good.”
“Yes,” he nods. He sips from his own glass. He sighs with pleasure. “On hot days, it’s good to drink hot tea.”
I give him a confused look. “That doesn’t make sense,” I say.
“But it is true,” he says. “My people know about hot days. There are things in life that do not seem . . .” He hesitates, searching for a word. “. . . like they belong together, but they do. Like me and you. We are connected.”
“Because we live in the same neighborhood?” I ask.
“Yes. But more so than that. Do you know the story of my people?”
I shake my head. I have no idea why there are African priests living in my neighborhood. I always accepted it because I was used to seeing them, but I suddenly wonder what drew them here.
“The Kebra Nagast is one of our holy books, nearly a thousand years old. It tells how the Queen of Sheba came to visit Jerusalem in the time of King Solomon. She was very clever, the queen. Very wealthy. Very beautiful.”
The other priests have settled down for their lunch. They tear pieces from a thin pancake and use it to scoop lentils and cooked vegetables. They’re eating, but I can tell they are also listening to my priest’s story.
“The queen had heard tales of King Solomon’s great wisdom. She was curious to meet this special king. So she traveled all the way from Ethiopia to Jerusalem. Imagine, a journey of more than two thousand kilometers, through the burning desert of Arabia. She brought with her thousands of servants, and camels with heavy loads of rare spices, jewels, and gold.” He gestures with his dark, strong hands, his fingers long and tapered, a magician conjuring the image of a long caravan and endless sand dunes. I can picture it: a tall regal queen, swaying under a jeweled canopy, shading her eyes against the glare.
“She traveled for six months to meet the king, and when she did, she had many riddles to test his wisdom. He answered them all.”
I study the Bible at school—it’s part of the standard curriculum. So I already know this story. I read the section in Kings where the Queen of Sheba visits King Solomon. It’s a boring little part that I could barely stay awake for. I am curious to hear how this relates to the Ethiopian priests.
“The queen noticed the fine clothes that King Solomon and his attendants wore. She saw how everyone listened to King Solomon and hurried to obey his wise commands. Miracles happened before her eyes. And she ate the food, which was spicier than anything she had ever tasted.
“King Solomon invited her to spend the night in his palace. She accepted. Then he asked her to marry him.” My priest pauses. “But she said no. The king told her he would never force her. He vowed that it would only happen by her own choice. If she came to him at night when he was lying in his bed, that would mean she had decided to be his wife. The queen agreed to this, knowing she would never go into his bedchamber. But that night she woke up terribly thirsty. The spicy food, you see, made her desperate for water.”
I stare into my teacup. My watery reflection looks back at me. This isn’t how the story about the Queen of Sheba goes in the section of Kings that I read. In Kings it only says that the Queen of Sheba came and that she was impressed by how smart and rich King Solomon was. There’s nothing about tricks or getting married. But the priest’s story doesn’t sound wrong. I can picture the clever king doing anything it takes to get his way.
“There was no water anywhere,” the priest says. He takes a sip of his tea, as if to highlight how thirsty the queen must have been. “She called to her servants, but they told her the only water to be found was beside the king’s bed. She resisted as long as she could, but she was dying of thirst. Finally, she rushed to the king’s chamber. She poured water from a pitcher by his bed and drank deeply. Suddenly, the king sat up!” My priest opens his eyes wide, acting the scene. He’s a wonderful storyteller. “He had been awake the whole time. ‘You came into my bedchamber,’ he said. ‘According to our bargain, we are now married.’ Nine months later she had a son, Menelik the First. The son of his son of his son down the generations is the king of Ethiopia to this day. There are Ethiopian Jews who live in my country today, descendants of this alliance between the Queen of Sheba and the King of the Jews.”
I’m pretty sure my eyes are as wide as plums. It would’ve been a lot easier to stay awake in Bible class if this were the story we learned.
“You see, my friend, we are all joined together. Our ancestors are your ancestors.” He points to the lion motif above the gate. “This lion on our shield is from the banner that King Solomon gave to the Queen of Sheba. It is the Lion of Judah.”
I pass this monastery often. I’ve seen that lion on the shield above the gate, and it never once occurred to me that it could be the Lion of Judah. I must look astonished.
The priest’s brown eyes dance in mirth.
“We look so different, you and I,” he says. “We sound and dress so differently, but we are connected through time.”
The priest takes my empty teacup and smiles at me.
“Go home to your mother now,” he says. “Do not c
ause her worry.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For the tea. And the story.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Then I turn and hurry home. I’m late for lunch.
Chapter Ten
Irony
I wake up in the middle of the night in a sudden rush, not sure what’s wrong. The room is pitch black, our window covered in a thick blanket that doesn’t let in even a bit of moonlight.
“Motti,” my little brother moans. “Motti, I had an accident.”
I fumble with my sheet and feel my way to the wall switch. I blink until my eyes adjust to the sudden light.
Beni sits in bed, sodden sheets twisted around his legs. The sharp smell of urine fills the room.
“Oh, Beni,” I say in sleepy annoyance. “Come on, you’re not a baby.”
“I had a bad dream. Our house caught on fire and Ima burned up,” he says and starts to cry. I shiver at the image.
“All right, all right,” I say crossly. “There’s no need to fall to pieces. Come on.” I pull him out of bed. “Go to the bathroom and strip off the wet pajamas and wash your legs. I’ll deal with the bed.”
He waddles down to the bathroom, keeping his wet legs apart.
I stare at the mess on the bed. It’s not just a little stain—he really wet it. I make a face as I grab a handful of wet sheet. When I pull it off the bed, I see that it’s soaked through. There’s a large wet circle on the mattress.
I go to the bathroom, wet a towel, and scrub out the stain. When Beni comes back to the room, he pulls on a fresh pair of pajamas and then hugs his middle as we both look at his wet bed.
“You can sleep in Gideon’s room,” I say.
“I don’t want to sleep there,” Beni says in a small voice. He’s wearing my old pajamas with green trucks on them. His skinned knees and knobby feet remind me how young he is. I forget sometimes.
“Fine. Then I’ll sleep there and you can have my bed.”
Beni pokes out his lower lip and stares at the floor.
“What?” I sigh. “It’s late. I want to go back to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep by myself,” he finally says in a tiny voice.
I think about it. “You want to squeeze in with me?”
His face lights up.
“Okay,” I say. I can’t help smiling back. You’d think I’d offered him the moon. “But you have to promise not to kick!”
“Of course,” he vows.
A thought occurs to me.
“And if you pee in my bed, Beni,” I warn, “I get Gideon’s bed and you’re sleeping on the floor!”
Beni draws himself up.
“I never wet the bed twice in one night,” he says with dignity.
“Good. So come on, I’m tired.”
It takes us a little while to settle in comfortably, two boys in one narrow bed. But finally we find our comfy spots. I fall asleep with the warmth of my little brother tucked inside the curve of my chest and knees. His soft breaths keep me company, even in my dreams. Neither one of us has nightmares.
* * *
The next morning I skip school again. Our neighborhood is already fully equipped with sandbags, so I drift into the next section of town and help out.
Today, in addition to the Civil Defense men and boys like me, we have three tall, blond Germans. We keep sneaking glances at them. They were dropped off in a small van that didn’t stay around. A lady just stuck her head out of the rolled-down window and shouted that they were volunteers and that she would be back to pick them up in the afternoon. They clearly want to help, but they don’t speak Hebrew and no one in our group knows any German. The older men especially have their shoulders tight and faces grim, unwilling to even try to communicate with the foreigners.
“I’ll be right back,” I say and scamper back to my building.
“Mrs. Friedburg,” I say when she opens the door, “we need a translator.”
* * *
“They’re volunteers,” Mrs. Friedburg explains to us after chatting with them.
“So they say,” says one of the Civil Defense men, sliding a suspicious sideways look at the tall, strapping Germans. “Boys like that ran my mother out of her house in Krakow, forced her on a cattle train to Auschwitz, and then killed her and my baby sister. If you think I’m turning my back on them, you have another thought coming.”
“Ach,” Mrs. Friedburg snorts. “These boys are here to help, and you’re a fool if you don’t take them up on their offer.”
She sets them up with shovels and instructions. The three muscular young men happily get to work, laughing and joking in their deep voices. Apparently, while foreign governments are distancing themselves from our situation, young people from all over the world are coming in droves to personally help. The Germans tell Mrs. Friedburg that they are staying at a hostel with hundreds of Swedish, Canadian, and American volunteers.
Mrs. Friedburg beams at the Germans. They have icy blue eyes and fair skin that has reddened in the sun. Their rapid German banter makes the others uncomfortable. But I have to give them this, they work hard. Compared to the old men of the Civil Defense and the school boys like me, they fly through the sand mound, filling the bags faster than people can carry them to the windows and doors.
“So an American, a Brit, and an Israeli are hiking in the wild when they’re caught by cannibals,” says one of the Civil Defense men, taking a break as he leans against the handle of his shovel. The German volunteers eye him, but they continue with their work. “The cannibals throw them all in a giant pot. They’re going to eat them. Their chief says, ‘You can each have one last request.’ The American asks for a glass of whiskey. The Brit says, ‘I want a cigar.’ The Israeli says, ‘I want you to punch me in the face.’ The chief says, ‘What kind of request is that?’”
I know this joke. A different Civil Defense man told it to me yesterday.
“The Israeli says, ‘That’s the only thing I want.’ Finally, the chief agrees, and he punches him in the face. The Israeli pulls out a gun and shoots the chief. The American and the Brit turn to him and say, ‘You had a gun all along? Why didn’t you just use it?’ And the Israeli says, ‘What? And have the UN accuse me of being the aggressor?’”
The Israelis all laugh. The Germans exchange looks. Mrs. Friedburg rushes to translate. A look of dawning comprehension crosses their faces. They snort in amusement. The man who told the joke beams at them, and they smile back.
Then one of them says something in German, looking earnestly at all of us. We all turn to look at Mrs. Friedburg.
“He says yes, that’s why they’re here.”
After that, everyone is much easier around each other.
When we finish all the sand piles, Mrs. Friedburg invites the Germans to her apartment for lunch. I walk with them through the quiet streets. There are hardly any cars, and many stores are closed now that the people needed to work them are stationed along our borders. All the windows are covered with tape and blackout covers. Sandbag walls are everywhere.
The newspaper wrote that it costs Israel $20 million a day in lost economic revenue to keep so many people active in the reserves. For a little country like ours that was already struggling with a weak economy and a lot of unemployment, that’s money we can’t afford. It’s one of the five precepts that Gideon explained to me. We can’t afford to keep a large standing army. If Egypt and Syria just kept us mobilized long enough, the country would collapse without a single shot fired. Which means that the war that’s coming our way will be here sooner rather than later.
The Germans chat and laugh, clearly happy to be here. It seems strange to me that twenty-five years ago, young Germans like them killed millions of Jews and now, young Germans are here to help us.
“The German government has just donated twenty thousand gas masks,” Mrs. Friedburg tells me as we walk, as if reading my mind.
“That’s just ironic,” I say. I expect her to jump down my throat. She doesn’t like it when people insult
Germany, the center of culture and learning.
But instead she just pats my back. “Motti,” she says, “it’s a gift for me to live to see this day.”
She has a contented, peaceful look that I’ve never seen on her before. All these years she’s held onto her pride and affection for Germany despite the terrible things that happened there. It couldn’t have been easy. These three young Germans had just given her back something that an army of three million took away from her: true pride in her native country.
“But what about the situation?” I ask. Threats keep flying our way over the radio airwaves, and foreign troops have continued to pour into the Sinai and Jordan, swelling their armed forces, which already outnumbered us ten to one. “Everyone knows that war is coming.”
People are calling it ha-mamtanah, the wait. The entire country on edge, knowing that war’s coming. Every day the pressure building, like a balloon that grows bigger and a little bigger, the thin skin stretched so tightly, and you know that soon, it’s going to blow.
“Mark my words,” she assures me. “Jordan won’t enter the war. King Hussein is a reasonable, educated man. He knows there’s no future in war with Israel. It’s only the Syrians and the Egyptians we have to worry about.” She pauses, considering. “And the Iraqi brigades. But not Jordan.”
I think of my Jordanian soldier, the one who gave me candy and always winks at me. I think about my dad’s childhood friend, Daoud. And then I remember the skinny Jordanian soldier with the dark glint in his eyes who aimed his rifle at me. I wonder which one is more like King Hussein.
Chapter Eleven
June 5, 1967
As we eat breakfast that morning, the air is suddenly split by the screaming jets of fighter planes roaring low overhead. I drop my fork and race to the window, pushing aside the heavy blanket that blocks my view. I search the sky. But the planes are long gone.
My mom and I exchange looks.
“Do you think this is war?” I ask. I glance over at Beni. He’s gone pale. He puts down his bread and puts an uneasy hand over his stomach.
