by Max Brooks
At one point I thought I’d hit pay dirt when, going through the larger coffee table books, I came across the title Vanishing Cultures of Southern Africa. I thought I might, at least, get some helpful tips from the pictures. I didn’t. It turned out just to be “white man’s porn”; a lot of voluptuous, topless, or totally naked women dancing and jiggling in various indigenous ceremonies. Okay, so maybe these are culturally accurate photos, and maybe I’m projecting too much from memories of my “Colonialism and Male Sexuality” class at Penn, but Reinhardt’s the exact age to have collected National Geographic the way later generations “read” Playboy for the “articles.” And besides, the picture on the spine above the title should have been a giveaway. It showed a beaded G-string between a woman’s legs.
There was one section though, which I almost missed. It was of a young woman during a coming-of-age ceremony carrying what looked like a hybrid sword/spear. I say “hybrid” because the shaft was shorter than I’d ever seen (barely three feet), while the blade was longer (about a foot and a half). The caption underneath described the weapon as an “Iklwa,” which made me skip to the index for a closer look.
It’s a Zulu weapon, invented by a guy named Shaka, which “revolutionized Bantu warfare.” Unlike earlier throwing spears, which could be knocked away by the other side’s shield, the Iklwa was meant for “close combat.” The wielder would get right up into the face of his enemy, knock the shield away with his own, then stab the short spear’s long blade under the man’s armpit. That’s where the name comes from. The sucking sound of pulling it out of the dead man’s heart and lungs. “Iklwa.”
Gross, yes, and horrifying to think of whole armies fighting this way. But I couldn’t help being fascinated by the book’s comparison to Roman legionnaires who fought in a similar way. Different places, different ages, completely different cultures, and yet they came up with similar weapons and tactics. Is there something about how we’re wired, something universally human? That was my last fuzzy thought before I finally nodded off.
The comfortable chair, Reinhardt’s rhythmic breathing.
I didn’t know what happened until my head suddenly jerked up to a dark sky with Reinhardt coming out of the entryway bathroom. Must have been the flushing that woke me. After half a couple disoriented seconds, I realized that Reinhardt was supporting himself against the wall. I jumped up to help him but he waved me away with, “I’m okay, I’m okay.”
He clearly wasn’t. Even as I struggled to get him back onto the couch, I could see how pale his lips were. I asked if he was hungry and he nodded weakly. I remember thinking that must be a good thing. Don’t really sick people lose their appetites?
There wasn’t much, at least when it came to frozen diet meals. But I did find plenty of “secret goodies,” little packets of gummies and candies squirreled away. He must have hidden them all upstairs, like the ice cream, when I came over to catalog his food. Now they were everywhere, stuffed into drawers and cabinets all over the kitchen. It actually gave me a little bit of sympathy to see all those caches. I’d hid more than a few Twix bites from Mom.
Shame.
I didn’t feel too sorry for him though, not when I asked if there was anything he could and couldn’t eat in his condition. I got a feeble, “Anything is fine, I guess.”
You guess? Aren’t you supposed to know if you have a heart condition? Lord knows his library isn’t much help.
Hey, Flaubert, what can’t a heart attack victim eat?
I settled on his second to last packet of insta-waffle. The kind you eat from a cup. Just add water, stir, and nuke. I tried not to keep reflexively checking the windows, or note that there were no kitchen knives to be seen. The man has probably never cooked anything in his life, or has had people do it for him.
Amazing how your perception of a space can change so quickly. If I’d been invited into Reinhardt’s kitchen two weeks ago, I might have just thought about the décor (or lack thereof). Then, when I came in with Dan a few days ago, all I could think about was what there was to eat. Now all I could think about was what I could use to defend myself. Same room, different priorities.
The microwave chirped and I stuck a spoon in the expanded, muffin-looking thing. Reinhardt was sitting up now and swallowing with obvious delight. “No sugar?” I told him it looked like it already had plenty but his “aw, c’mon” shrug sent me back to the kitchen. “Some salt too…” I heard him call from the living room (with what sounded like a full mouth) and then, after probably realizing his tone, he added, “Please?”
I grabbed the salt shaker off the counter, the box of white sugar from the pantry, and returned to discover that he’d practically finished.
The world-famous scholar looked up at me like a ten-year-old boy. “Couldn’t wait.”
Something rattled. I jumped and spun. My eyes flicked to the source of the noise. It was the kitchen door, the cracked glass rattling in its fixture.
Reinhardt said, “It’s been doing that. The wind.”
I apologized, told him that Dan would be happy to look at it, and felt my body relax. That was when the yawn came out, big and loud, and I covered my mouth with embarrassment. As my eyes opened, I saw Reinhardt looking at me with an expression I hadn’t recognized before, a kind, almost fatherly smile.
He said, “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you here to watch me. You’ve got to get home and to bed.”
I told him that I was fine, to which he responded, “Balderdash,” and asked how many hours I’d slept in the last two days. I confessed to a couple of catnaps.
“Aha!” A tiny twinkle, a wag of the finger, and a dramatic, two-hand sweep toward the door.
“Do you want me to set the alarm?” Then, remembering all the window damage, said, “At least the internal sensors? Maybe just the kitchen?”
“What if I need a midnight snack?” He patted his stomach lightly. “You think I know how to disarm that infernal apparatus?”
“But you can’t make it to the kitchen,” I protested, “if you get dizzy, fall, and hit your head or something…”
“Go, go. I think it was a…” He hesitated before saying, “Nerves…I used to get…when I was young…these spells…I could have been more forthright last night.” He scowled at the floor. “It’s a cruel joke, those formative years, when your brain learns the rules of the universe. Your childhood is spent being nurtured, protected, loved unconditionally while your adulthood is spent searching in vain for substitutes. Mate, government, God…”
He suddenly looked up at me, embarrassed, angry. “Sorry.” He waved his hand like those words had been a bad smell. “Intellectual coward.”
I felt so bad for him, all that puffed up veneer stripped away. Embarrassed old man, admitting his weakness.
All I could say was, “It’s all right, I mean, who doesn’t want to be taken care of when things get scary?”
He repeated that phrase, “taken care of,” and blinked hard with a long, wet sniff.
I suddenly found myself asking, “Do you want to stay at our place, you know, just in case it isn’t a panic attack? If you need something in the middle of the night?”
He paused at that, genuinely surprised, then said with a smiling swat, “Will ya get outta here already?”
“Just let me clean up first,” I said, and carried his cup and spoon to the kitchen. It didn’t take long, spoon in the dishwasher, disposable cup in the trash. But when I came back, he’d already managed a trip to the bookshelf. Three small, thick, red hardbacks were sitting on his lap. I’d noticed them before but couldn’t read the Latin titles. “Childhood friends,” he said, “Cato, Varro, Columella, their writings on agriculture.”
And of my questioning look, he answered, “I overheard you telling Effie about the sprouts. I wasn’t really asleep.” He opened the first book, grabbed his glas
ses off the table, and said, “Maybe I can find something useful in here.” Then with a derisive snort, added, “Maybe I can be useful for once.”
And with a really bitter chuckle, he muttered, “Work sets you free.”
Where have I heard that before?
I told him not to stay up too late. He said, “I won’t, I won’t,” and shooed me away with a smile and a big yawn.
That was about an hour ago. I’m home now in my kitchen, writing all this down before getting back to work. Dan’s on the floor, sitting cross-legged amidst a pile of bamboo. Two piles, actually, a smaller one of finished stakes and a much larger, rougher pile resting across his lap. He’s out, by the way, back against the fridge, snoring, half buried in his bamboo blanket.
I thought about waking him to go upstairs, but I know he’ll just want to get back to work. I think I’ll crash on the couch for a couple hours, set my phone for midnight. Then I’ll get up, maybe wake Dan as well, and the two of us can saw spikes till morning. Mostar thinks we’ll have enough by tomorrow night to completely ring the neighborhood.
And after that?
I keep getting up to check on the garden, to see how all my little sprouts are doing. They’re so beautiful, so vulnerable. I gotta figure out the best way to raise them.
Raise?
Whatever, so tired.
Tomorrow, or rather the day after tomorrow, after I get a really good night’s sleep, after the perimeter is done. By that time Reinhardt might have found some tips in his books. I hope he’s okay. As I started to leave, back turned, my hand on the knob, he said, “Good night, Hannah.”
Grant that we may lie down in Peace, Eternal God, and awaken us to life.
Shelter us with Your tent of peace and guide us with Your good counsel.
Shield us from hatred, plague and destruction.
Keep us from war, famine and anguish.
Help us to deny our inclination to evil.
God of peace, may we always feel protected because You are our Guardian and Helper.
Give us refuge in the shadow of your wings.
Guard our going forth and our coming in and bless us with life and peace.
Blessed are You, Eternal God, whose shelter of peace is spread over us, over all Your people, Israel and over Jerusalem.
—The Hebrew Hashkiveinu, a blessing of protection
From Golda’s Daughter: My Life in the IDF by Lieutenant Colonel Hannah Reinhardt Roth (ret.)
Intellect. That was the only way to reach them. Emotion? Passion? Never. That was debasement, the language of animals. I tried to remain calm and to keep the conversation along the lines of an academic debate.
I discussed Egypt’s expulsion of Soviet advisors as punishment for Moscow’s armament moratorium. I delineated the specifics of said armaments, from MiG-23 fighter bombers to the Frog intermediate range ballistic missiles. With Sheehan’s New York Times story as ammunition, I demonstrated how these offensive weapons were no different than the columns of T-55 main battle tanks Nasser had unsheathed against Israel in ’67.
Father, again, insisted that Sadat was not Nasser, which I maintained justified my point. Sadat, in order to prove that he was not a clone of his predecessor, had to prove to his people, the Arab League, and the world at large that he could accomplish what Nasser couldn’t—driving the yehud into the sea. Wasn’t this strategy, painting victory over defeat, the motive behind so many past wars? In fact, hadn’t Nasser tried to erase Israel in order to erase his debacle in Yemen?
I couldn’t help but be proud of my campaign. Supporting facts. Inarguable logic. I could almost hear the phantom applause of Clausewitz, Mahan, and Jomini. Only Schlieffen withheld his praise, clucking at my critical mistake of avoiding a two-front war.
“Hostilities are impossible.” Alex always knew when to strike, just when Father needed him the most. “The United Nations will see to that.”
I responded with a question. “What ‘United’ Nations do you mean? The declining British? The anti-Semitic French? The Communist bloc that takes its orders from the Kremlin or the so-called non-aligned state hostages of Arab oil?”
I could see another thought readying to charge. I broke it with a preemptive, “The same United Nations that stood by and did nothing after fourteen Syrian probing attacks, and who pulled their peacekeepers out of the Sinai to make way for the Egyptians?”
Alex spluttered, “But America…”
I’d won. I knew it. America? I buried him in counterpoints. Vietnam. Watergate. The inward distractions of cultural civil strife. Alex huffed, retreating before my onslaught. If I’d only been magnanimous in victory and refrained from that conclusive nail. “America can’t help us.”
Just two letters. One word.
“Us?” The resurgent flames blazed in Father’s eyes. “Us? Hannah, aren’t we Americans?”
“American Jews,” I countered, regrouping before those smug, tranquil faces. “Haven’t we learned anything from our past?”
“Mmmhh,” mused Father, pretending to ponder my point. “Learning is indeed the key, learning to understand ourselves.” His hand sailed theatrically over the bookshelf behind us. “Biology, psychology…”
“Political economy,” Alex added, winning an approving smile from our patriarch.
“Without unearthing the roots of our desire for conflict,” Father lectured, “we are no better than pre-Pasteur physicians who acknowledged the existence of microbes yet failed to connect their existence to disease.”
Poetic, dramatic, and directly lifted from the pages of his last book. His eyes had even shifted from mine to the sacred arc of his latest shelved tome. Jung’s Hiroshima: Examining the Psychosis of War.
“There’s nothing nobler than working for a peaceful future,” I said, trying to appeal to his vanity, “but there won’t be a future if we don’t secure the present.” I opened the window, and like a released djinni, the sounds and smells of the Upper East Side gushed in. “And that present has an entire region’s armies mobilizing to wipe us off the map.”
Alex gave a slight, amused chuckle. “So, you’re saying we should burn our books and just club our way forward like troglodytes?”
“I’m saying,” I shot back, “that it’s suicidal to waste time deconstructing the Versailles Treaty the morning AFTER Kristallnacht!”
Father, still sitting, smiled that insufferable, victorious curl. “Ah,” he said, waving his infuriating finger to the sky, “and now we come to the final keep in your crumbling fortress. Should we have fought?”
It was an old argument, as worn and comfortable as the old leather throne he occupied. Should we have fought? The first time I’d been six, asking about the black and white faces on our mantel. Who were they? Where is Strasbourg? Why did they die? Why didn’t they leave with you? And with the final question, “Why didn’t they fight back?” came the inevitable dismissal.
“Because it would not have made a difference.”
Those same pictures stared down at us now, those smiling, innocent death masks.
“An eye for an eye,” my father continued, “only leaves the world blind.”
I parried his Gandhi quote with another saying from the Raj: “If the Indians all pissed at once, the British would be washed out to sea.”
“Are you dismissing nonviolence,” said Alex, shaking his head, “are you really going to deny the progress made in this country by Dr. King?”
“Are you going to deny that King’s leverage was based on the fear of Malcolm X?” Sensing an opening, I tried to break the siege. “An open hand works when the alternative is a fist.”
Quoting Einstein, Alex said, “You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war.”
“Said the man fleeing Dachau’s oven.”
“Such a zealot,” my father
moaned, the words dripping with disappointment. “You claim to defend our traditional homeland yet the method of your defense is exactly what lost that land to begin with.”
I could feel my cheeks flushing, hear my voice rising. “I’m not saying war is good! And I’m not saying that going around the world attacking people is right. It’s not! It’s a last resort, always! If there’s any other way to solve problems, any way to avoid bloodshed…but when they’re coming for you, when you know they’re coming, when they won’t listen and it’s too late to even run, you have to defend yourself. You have to fight!”
I’d done the one thing I’d sworn against. I had allowed my heart to take command. “Oh, Hannah.” Alex chuckled victoriously through his nose, his hands stretched out sympathetically. “Hannah, Hannah.” Only my brother could make me hate the sound of my name. Hannah, you’re such a child. Hannah, don’t be so hysterical. Hannah, if you’d just let me help you be more like me maybe Papa would love you as much as he loves me.
“You intellectual coward!” I hissed. “Both of you! Sheltering behind books and quotes and other people’s protection! But what are you going to do when reality’s jackboot comes crashing through your door?”
My fist shook at Father, then to the ghosts on the mantel; all those lives now reduced to piles of shoes, eyeglasses, gold fillings, and ashes.
“What did you do for them?” I shouted at my frozen audience. “When the letters stopped coming, when your whole class enlisted. Where were you?”
I leaned over my father, fixing my gaze on the passive, cool, utterly unresponsive brain. Because that was all he’d become now; no heart, no soul, nothing but dispassionate gray matter. “You stayed. You hid. You didn’t make a difference.” I didn’t realize I was crying until I saw a tear stain his shirt. “You didn’t even try.” Through blurring vision, I sputtered to Alex, “And you won’t either, when they come for you, you won’t resist.” Over my shoulder I said, “You’ll just lie there and die.”
