by Tammar Stein
Ofra kisses the top of her little girl’s head. We all know she’s right.
It isn’t until that evening that Kol Israel stops playing music. General Herzog begins to speak.
The fog of war is covering the battlefield, and it is more of an obstacle to the other side than it is to us. The citizens in Tel Aviv going about their normal daily work might be interested to know that Cairo Radio reported their city is burning.
“Tel Aviv is okay?” Ofra says, her face stunned as hope begins to beam.
“Shhh,” Shlomo and the Pinskys hush her.
Until now, we’ve only heard reports from the Arab radios, gleefully announcing the death and destruction in our largest city, while the Israeli radio remained silent. This is the first real update on the situation of the war that we’ve heard since the air raid first wailed.
The general continues to speak. In a calm, British-accented Hebrew, he tells us that we must keep faith with our military and our government. The fog of war obstructs the enemy, and so, let us leave him with it.
Mrs. Friedburg nods. “I like this phrase, ‘the fog of war,’” she says. “I told you we couldn’t believe those first reports.”
That night everyone falls asleep in the bomb shelter, some propped up against the wall, others curled on the grainy cement floor.
In the middle of the night, my sleep is suddenly shattered. The ground and air shake from the thunder of nearby mortar shells. It lasts for hours. Yoram whimpers and Esther moans, only half-awake but in the grips of a nightmare she can’t shake. Ofra hushes them. She croons Persian lullabies to both the little children. I can barely hear her over the roar of war raging above us.
We keep a small light on, and it throws deep shadows in the corners. It’s hard for me not to picture enemy soldiers crouching in those shadows.
The all-clear alarm never sounds.
At six in the morning, Shlomo turns on the radio. He had shut it off during the night to conserve batteries. After the rough night we just went through, we are braced for bad news. Kol Israel beeps in with a news update: The lead story of the day is that yesterday the Air Force dealt a decisive blow to the air forces of the Egyptian, Syrian, and Jordanian armies. Four hundred enemy planes have been destroyed. The Chief of Staff described the victory as unprecedented.
“Did you hear that?” gasps Ofra.
But the announcer signs off and music resumes.
“Can it be true?” my mom asks the room. “The Air Force destroyed four hundred planes?”
None of us can wrap our minds around that number. Three months ago, it was national news when our fighter planes downed one enemy aircraft in a dogfight. And here, in one day, four hundred? Is the Israeli Air Force making things up the same way our enemies did?
Mrs. Friedburg grins ear to ear.
“This report, I believe,” she decrees.
We erupt in ragged cheers. Mrs. Friedburg hugs Shlomo. Ofra squeezes Esther and baby Yoram. My mom wraps me in her arms, and we rock from side to side in shocked joy. The elderly Mr. and Mrs. Pinsky start dancing.
Unprecedented is a mild word to describe this news. In one day, our little air force of two hundred planes has destroyed a force twice its size.
It’s unbelievable. It’s incredible. It’s a miracle.
We are still stuck in our building’s bomb shelter. The Jordanians are still shelling our city. But maybe the end of Israel isn’t so near after all.
Chapter Thirteen
Day 2
We eat breakfast in the shelter. Though the radio news updates continue to tell us how well the war is going, the all-clear still hasn’t sounded. We all agree, however, that the shelling has slowed.
“Ima,” I say, “let me bring Beni home.”
“No.” She doesn’t even stop to think about it. Baby Yoram is in her lap and she’s tickling his belly. Yoram is a fat baby, and I always thought fat babies were happy, but he’s very temperamental. He only lets Ofra or my mom hold him. When Mrs. Friedburg tried to feed him his bottle, he screamed and flailed his arms so hard he knocked the bottle out of her hands. It almost shattered on the hard floor. I think it hurt her feelings a little. She handed the red-faced baby back to my mom and sniffed something under her breath about German babies having better manners.
“Beni should be here with us,” I say.
“He’s safer staying where he is.”
Everyone knows it’s safer to shelter in place. Even though Ofra badly needs to go to the hospital for her cut, we are waiting for the all-clear. The hospital is a kilometer away and hobbling there during shelling would be crazy.
“But Ima, he’s probably losing his mind,” I say. “You know how he gets when he’s scared.”
I picture Beni’s rascally face scrunched in distress as he clutches his stomach. My mom clearly pictures the same thing. Her mouth twists in bitter worry as twin lines appear between her eyebrows. She shifts fat little Yoram on her lap, dislodging him from his perch on her chest.
“I can’t let you,” she says. “It’s too dangerous.”
Baby Yoram, annoyed that I’m encroaching on his turf and upsetting his cozy situation, grunts in irritation. His forehead wrinkles in ominous distress. My mom and I exchange alarmed looks. The last thing anyone wants is to set Yoram off. My mom jiggles him on her knees to distract him.
“I’ll fly there so fast,” I say urgently. “I can be at the school and back here with Beni in less than fifteen minutes. Please, Ima.” I can’t stand the thought of him in the school bunker with no family, with us so close. “I can bring Shira too,” I offer to Ofra.
Ofra is lying down, her face flushed with fever. Little Esther is glued to her side.
“No,” moans Ofra. “Just look at me! I don’t want to scare her. Leave her at school.”
“I should go get Beni,” my mom says. As if he understands, baby Yoram whimpers and clings to her.
“They need you here,” I say. “Plus, no offense, I’m much faster.”
She snorts. I can’t remember the last time I saw my mom run, even to catch a bus.
“I know you want to be a hero,” she says softly. “But this isn’t the way.”
“Ima,” I say, stung, “this isn’t about that! Trust me. I just want to bring him back, I promise.” And maybe it did cross my mind how heroic it would be to bring Beni home, but it is also true that he really would be better off here with us.
Mrs. Friedburg watches our conversation with great interest, her sharp, birdlike eyes following our back-and-forth like a soccer match.
“God.” My mom puts a hand over her eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“There’s hardly any shelling anymore,” I argue. “We’ll be fine. And Beni needs to be home with us.”
“Let the boy go,” Mrs. Friedburg butts in. For once I’m glad that she’s nosy and in everyone’s business.
“Really?” my mom asks her. She looks at the older woman, who, even after a night in our shelter, has her metal-gray hair in rigid curls and sits with perfect posture. Some sort of secret communication flies silently between them. I watch the two women, holding my breath.
Mrs. Friedburg nods firmly. She leans forward to pat my mom’s hand in reassurance. “Bring your brother home,” she says to me. “Fly back here on wings like an eagle’s.”
I know this quote. It’s a line from Isaiah: Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will fly up on wings like eagles’. They shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not be faint.
My mom bites her lip and looks down.
“Yes, Mrs. Friedburg,” I say. My heart skips a beat knowing I’m going back out on the rubble-strewn street. “I will.”
I plant a kiss on my mom’s cheek, and she closes her eyes.
“Go,” she says. “Bring Beni home. Come back safely.”
* * *
The streets are empty as I leave the shelter and go outside. It’s another lovely summer day. There’s just the small matter of
war raging. I take a moment to compose myself in my building’s entryway. Then I take off, sprinting through the empty streets. The city feels abandoned. No shops open, no cars on the road. The breeze stirs a few pieces of laundry that still hang from their lines. A blue-and-white Israeli flag flaps from the top of a building. A sniper has shot holes through the Star of David in its center.
I make it all the way to Beni’s school without incident. Easy-peasy, my racing heart notwithstanding.
Since it’s my old school, I know right where to go. I bang on the door of the basement gymnasium until one of the teachers opens it. The familiar smell of old sweat and musty gym mats is now mixed with the body odor of too many people. Unlike the cheerful camaraderie in my building’s shelter, the mood here is bleak and panicked.
“Did you hear the news?” I ask the teacher who lets me in. “About the Air Force?”
“No,” she says. Her eyes are rimmed red from too little sleep. Dozens of small kids huddle in sad, frightened groups. “No one brought a radio. How bad is it?”
I don’t recognize this teacher; she’s a new lady. She’s looks like an apple, with a huge chest and skinny legs. Her hair is stuffed into a messy emerald green snood, only making her more apple-like. She’s clearly spent the night in her teaching clothes, and something that looks suspiciously like vomit stains the side of her long brown skirt.
“It’s not bad news at all!” I can’t believe that I am the one telling her this. My face glows with excitement. “We destroyed their air forces!”
“Whose?” she asks, confused. She’s catching on that it’s good news, but she hasn’t absorbed the extent of it.
“Everyone’s,” I tell her. “Egypt. Jordan. Syria. Four hundred planes in one day!”
“What!” She clutches me by the upper arms, her long nails sinking into my skin. The sour smell of sweat and bad breath washes over me.
“It’s true,” I yelp. “Our air force caught them by surprise. Most of their planes were still on the ground.”
“You’re sure?” she asks, shaking me a bit.
“Yes!”
She loosens the painful grip on my arms, the pinched, frightened look slowly leaving her face.
“It was on the radio first thing this morning,” I tell her. “That’s why I came to get Beni. We’re going to be fine! We’re going to win!”
She squeals like a girl, then yanks me forward in a tight hug so that I sink into her massive bosom. I’m like a rag doll as she releases me. I catch a glimpse of her glowing, happy face as she plants two giant sloppy kisses on my cheeks.
She races off to tell the other teachers. I wade in, searching for my brother.
When I finally spot Beni, he is curled in on himself, rocking back and forth. Some of the older children are leading songs and games with the younger kids, but Beni isn’t participating.
“Beni,” I say. I put my hand on his curved back. He shakes under my hand like a field mouse, trembling with fear. “It’s me, Motti. I’m here. Let’s go home.”
He raises a pale, tear-stained face.
“Motti.” His eyes are almost blank with panic.
I feel nearly overwhelmed by the fear and need in his gaze. But I channel Mrs. Friedberg. I speak calmly, supremely confident.
“Enough partying at school. Ima’s waiting. You ready to go home or what?”
His chin wobbles. “I miss Ima so much. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“I know, Beni,” I say. I punch him lightly on the shoulder and ruffle his hair. Anything to take away that lost, frightened look. “So let’s scram.”
A tiny hint of a smile lightens his face. Then he launches himself at me, burying his face in my chest and hugging me so tightly I gasp.
“I love you, Motti,” he says, his voice muffled in my shirt.
“I love you too.” My heart swells with a wave of affection for my little brother.
“I didn’t know how long I would be here,” he says, his words muffled against my shirt. “I’m so glad you came to get me. It feels like I’ve been here a year.” His heart pounds so hard I can feel it thumping against my own chest. My heart answers his, beating loud and strong.
“I will always come get you,” I promise him in that musty, smelly gymnasium. “You never have to worry about that.”
* * *
We step out of the shelter, and Beni blinks in the bright sun.
“We can’t dawdle,” I say. “Take a deep breath, and then we’ve got to run. Understand?”
My little brother looks at me with his big, brown eyes. He slips his hand into mine and nods.
“Good. On three: one, two, three!”
We take off, running hand in hand. His school is a ten-minute walk from our building. I want to make it home in five minutes. We tear down the street, taking a left, then a right, running as if our lives depended on it.
“What are you doing outside?!” someone yells at us. I skid to a stop and see a Civil Defense man peering at us from a doorway.
“We’re going home from school,” I shout to him, standing in the middle of the road. No cars, after all. Beni heaves for breath next to me, making the most of the short rest.
“Get out from the middle of the road, stay close to the buildings!” the man yells back. “There are snipers out. Run, run, run!”
I don’t bother to tell him the only reason we stopped was because he yelled a question at us.
“You ready?” I ask Beni. My brother nods, and I squeeze his little hand. “We’re almost there,” I tell him.
We run and run, hugging the buildings, staying in the shadows. Past the bullet-riddled flag. Past the broken building with the cut laundry line. We’re less than two minutes from our street.
A white cat crosses the street toward us. I skid to a stop on the sidewalk.
“What’s wrong?” Beni gasps. His face is bright red, and he’s gasping for breath. I’ve set a punishing pace for such a long sprint. He looks wildly all around us.
“It’s the white cat,” I say. “The one from yesterday.” It seems like months ago that I saw it leap to the balcony and balance along the wrought iron edge like some kind of circus cat. But it happened only yesterday.
It comes right up to us, head cocked sideways to look at me.
“Oh,” Beni says. “He’s cute.” The cat is pure white and small, even for a street cat. But he’s graceful and light on his little padded feet.
“Yeah,” I say, a smile coming out. “He is.” His nose is a perfectly pink triangle. I feel a twinge of guilt that I ever tried to kick such a pretty cat. I think of Gideon and send a quick prayer that he’s okay.
Beni and I crouch down. I put my hand out for the cat to sniff. The cat comes right up and rubs its little head against my hand, as if rubbing away an itch. Beni touches its tail and the cat flicks it out of his grasp, making Beni laugh.
Suddenly, it raises its head, hearing something neither Beni nor I can hear. Then it takes off without warning, streaking away and disappearing in the dark shade of a nearby alley.
“Where did he go?” Beni asks, squinting and half-turning to follow it.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, though I’m suddenly uneasy. “We’ve stayed here too long, we need to go home.”
We turn the corner and there’s our building at the end of the street.
“Come on,” I say. “Almost there.”
At that very moment, a high-pitched whistle pierces the air. Without pausing to think, I grab my brother and shove us both against the sun-warmed building next to us. I press myself against Beni, covering his face with my arms.
A terrible roar explodes around us. The ground shakes. The power of the explosion shakes the eyeballs in my head. It rattles my bones. When silence falls again, I lift my head and look, checking Beni for cuts.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I can’t hear myself speak. My ears are ringing.
Beni just stares at me with a dumbfounded look. I run my hands over his bare arms and legs, but he’s okay. W
e’re okay.
The shell landed near the end of the street. Blinking too fast, I step into the road to get a better look.
Our building is fine. I feel a wave of weakness at the intense relief. But something is different. For a moment I can’t put my finger on it. Beni and I trot over to our building. I keep him a little bit behind me, my heart still tripping at the close call.
Then I finally realize what’s different. The eucalyptus tree in our courtyard is gone. It’s just . . . gone. Pulverized into matchsticks by a direct hit from a Jordanian shell. If we hadn’t stopped to pet the snowy white cat, we would have been racing under that tree the moment it was hit.
“Wow,” Beni breathes, looking at the destruction strewn all over the courtyard.
I start to shiver, shaking and jerking like a puppet being pulled by its strings. My hands look as if they belong to someone else. My knees feel loose and weak. A cat saved our lives.
Beni tugs me. “What are you waiting for?” he asks.
I realize that I’ve come to a complete stop, staring in shock at the giant scar where a huge tree stood a minute ago. Wisps of smoke and a campfire smell fill the air.
Beni doesn’t understand how close we came to dying in the courtyard of our building.
“Motti,” he complains, “you’re squishing my fingers.”
I pull myself together with difficulty and unclench the death grip I have on his small hand.
“It’s okay,” I croak. “We’re almost home. Let’s go.”
Chapter Fourteen
Impossible Things
By the afternoon of the second day of the war, the all-clear siren blares. No more mortar shells drop on Jerusalem. No more snipers shoot into the streets of our city. We move out of the basement shelter and back into our apartment.
Shlomo and Mrs. Friedburg make the long walk with Ofra to the hospital while my mom stays home with Yoram, Esther, Shira, Beni, and me. Ofra returns late that night with twenty stiches under a thick wrapping of white gauze. She’s pale and haggard with fatigue. I hang back in the doorway of my room, listening in on their conversation. Beni’s soft, steady breaths tell me he’s asleep. Shira and Esther are in Gideon’s room. Yoram sleeps in a little nest made of blankets next to our couch.
