The Six-Day Hero (Israel) Read online

  Seeing him in his uniform always amazes me. His beret with the silver Signal Corps pin is tucked under the epaulet of his left shoulder. He looks tough and steady, a real soldier. I have to wait six more years to join the army.

  Though he’s all smiles as he enters our apartment, he seems unusually distracted as Beni chatters to him about the latest happenings in first grade. Gideon flicks on the radio, even though it’s playing a folk music program. I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “You’re listening to the Gevatron now?” I tease. They’re actually a great group, but Gideon has never enjoyed folk music.

  He makes a face at the pioneer songs pouring out and switches off the radio.

  My mom ladles out apricot chicken, ribbons of steam curling from the sweet and savory meat. My dad passes around a bowl of roasted potatoes, glistening with oil and flecked with salt.

  “Yossi says we’re going to have another overnight camping trip with Scouts,” I say, around a mouthful of delicious chicken. “I told him no way, because our Scout leader said that after last time—”

  “Did you hear about Egypt?” Gideon interrupts me.

  My parents exchange worried glances.

  “We heard. It was on the radio this morning,” my dad says.

  I stop chewing, distracted from my food. The mood around the table is suddenly serious and grim. Even Beni notices, his eyebrows crinkling as he tries to follow the sudden turn in the conversation.

  Egypt, the country at our southern border, is ten times the size of Israel. Their president, Gamal Abdel Nasser, is fond of announcing on Egyptian state radio that his military will march into Israel on land soaked in our blood. The only country more serious about our annihilation is Syria, at our northern border. Jordan and Lebanon also share a border with us. They don’t like us either, but they usually don’t go out of their way to dream how great life would be if all the Jews in Israel were dead.

  “Nasser says we’re planning an attack on Syria and he’s going to help them,” Gideon says in a low voice.

  “We’re not attacking Syria,” my mom scoffs. “Why would he think that?” It sounds like a rhetorical question, but Gideon sometimes knows more about what’s going on because of his work on the base.

  “We didn’t have tanks in the Independence Day parade,” Gideon says. “The Russians are going around telling everyone it’s because the tanks are already mobilized on the northern border, preparing to invade Syria.”

  “But that’s a lie!” Beni says. He’s little, but he’s sharp.

  “I knew it,” I exclaim. “I said we should have had tanks in the parade! None of this would be happening if people weren’t so worried about offending Jordan.”

  “We live a kilometer away from the border with Jordan,” my dad reminds me. “If there’s a war with them, it’ll be fought in our neighborhood.”

  “And Jordan has a treaty with Egypt,” added Gideon. “If either one attacks us, so will the other.”

  Mom sets down her fork as if she’s lost her appetite.

  “Is there going to be a war?” Beni asks in a small voice.

  “Sweetheart,” my mom says to him, “it’ll be fine.” She ladles more potatoes onto his plate. “Eat.”

  “It all comes down to whether the UN troops stay in the Sinai or not,” Gideon says. The United Nations has stationed peacekeeping troops in the desert between us and Egypt ever since our last war eleven years ago. They’re the main reason more fighting hasn’t broken out.

  “Those UN troops aren’t going anywhere,” my dad says. But he sounds worried. He shakes his head “no” when my mom tries to ladle more potatoes onto his plate too. I think she’s trying to fill their mouths with food so they stop talking about this.

  I notice Beni’s eyes, wide and scared.

  “No one cares about the stupid UN or Egyptians,” I mutter. This talk is ruining our nice meal.

  “Motti, be quiet,” my dad snaps.

  My face turns bright red.

  “You’ll care if we go to war with them,” Gideon adds.

  “Calm down,” my mom says. “It’s not that easy to start a war. God willing, we’re a long way from it.” She knocks on the table three times and then for good measure says, “Tfu, tfu, tfu” against the evil eye. She adds a scoop of potatoes to Gideon’s plate. “Now eat.”

  * * *

  After lunch Beni clears the table and I wash the dishes.

  “Motti,” Beni says, “is it true that Nasser wants to push us into the sea?”

  “Maybe it’s true,” I say. “But the Egyptians already tried that with Moses, and look how that turned out for them. We can take anything they throw at us and still beat them by sundown.”

  I ruffle his hair, which always annoys him. Plus, my hands are wet and soapy.

  Beni makes a disgusted face as he touches his soapy hair. He glares at me. “I’m telling Mom!”

  “Dad’s going to kill you if you wake them up from their nap again.”

  Beni narrowed his eyes. But I’m right. He storms off. The front door shuts behind him.

  I dry off the last plate and then slip out as well.

  As soon as I step out of our apartment building, the sun greets me, bright and warm. Jerusalem sits at the edge of the desert. On one side, there are hills dotted with pine trees, streams, and fertile ground. On the other side, toward Jordan, it’s all bare ground, parched and brown. The sun radiates off the desert hills like an oven with the door left open. Bedouins still live on those hills like in ancient times, moving from place to place with their camels and tents.

  I’ve only taken two steps when I see old Mrs. Friedburg making her slow, painful way up the path. She pulls a small metal cart half filled with groceries.

  “Motti, open the door for me,” she commands in her thick German-accented Hebrew.

  Mrs. Friedburg and I have a complicated relationship. On the one hand, she’s an evil, grumpy woman who enjoys tattling on the neighborhood kids and getting us into trouble. She’s the only adult I know who insists I call her Missus. Everyone else goes by their first name. Even my teachers in school go by the title “morah” or “moreh,” meaning teacher, and their first name. On the other hand, Mrs. Friedburg’s apartment has a piano.

  Before the Second World War, Mrs. Friedburg was a concert piano player and a music teacher in Berlin. When she’s in one of her rare good moods, she lets me come into her apartment. She’ll play Rachmaninoff and show me basic finger positions and notes. One time she said I had a natural elegance in my wrist positions. I’m not sure what that meant, but it sounded like the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

  When I look at her piano, the white and black keys stretching out before me in a perfect path, the world just makes sense. Ever since she taught me “Fur Elise,” I’ve played it every time she lets me into her apartment.

  But it doesn’t happen often. Usually Mrs. Friedburg complains about the heat, the idiots in the government, the dirt, the smell, and how nothing in Israel can compare to the elegant greatness of Germany.

  Not surprisingly, most of us native Israeli Sabras don’t enjoy hearing how the country that murdered six million Jews is a model of culture and learning. Of course, more than two-thirds of Israel is made up of new immigrants—everyone arriving with their own culture, food, and distinct accents—but they’ve come here because they consider Israel their home. Mrs. Friedburg never seems to have a kind word about Israel or anyone living in it.

  I hold the door open for her as she wheels in her little cart. Her face is wet with sweat.

  “Oy, this wretched heat,” she says, huffing by me.

  “Why did you go shopping now? Why not in the morning when it’s cool?”

  “Cheeky boy!” she harrumphs. “It’s none of your business, but I had an appointment in the morning.”

  “Do you need help with the groceries?” I ask. Mrs. Friedburg lives across the hallway from us. She told me once that she will never move from this apartment because it’s too hard to c
arry the piano down the stairs. Since it’s one in the afternoon and all the adults in the building are resting, I also know she won’t let me touch her piano. Still, I always try to stay on her good side.

  “Bah,” she says at my offer. “I know you don’t want to spend time with an old woman.”

  “Okay. Shalom, Mrs. Friedburg.” I dash off into the bright day before anyone else can stop me.

  When I arrive at the field, only Yossi is there.

  “Where’s everyone else?” I demand. There’s usually a good crowd of five or six boys, plenty for a game of soccer.

  Yossi shrugs.

  “So what do you want to do?” I ask.

  “I have a magazine,” he says, holding up last week’s copy of Our Country, the newspaper’s weekly edition for children. “Or did you bring marbles?”

  I shake my head. I put my hands on my hips, thinking. I can hear the younger kids laughing on the playground near our field. A small band of boys chases another group, probably playing Maccabees and Greeks. The girls are hogging the swings, like they always do.

  “Come on,” I say, rising to my feet. “Let’s go to the fence.”

  “What? Today?” Yossi is usually game for anything, but going to the fence, the barbed-wire border between Israel and Jordan, is a little dangerous. The Jordanian soldiers generally leave our side of the fence alone, but sometimes people throw rocks. Sometimes there are snipers.

  “Yes, of course, today,” I say impatiently, the conversation from lunch still on my mind. “Let’s see what they’re up to.”

  Our neighborhood is less than a kilometer from the Jordanian border. I head in that direction, knowing that Yossi will follow.

  We cut through open fields and narrow streets, racing each other. I’m taller than Yossi but he’s faster. He streaks past me, a skinny little blur. We’re both wearing leather sandals, and the soles make a smacking noise on the cobbled streets.

  We dodge dumpsters overflowing with rotting vegetables, duck under sheets hanging to dry. We’re neck and neck, panting and sweating. Apartment buildings go right up to the border. A row of wide cement cones lines Israel’s side of the barbed wire fence. A yellow sign says “Border No, Passage” in English, Hebrew, and French. Israeli soldiers keep an eye on the Jordanian side from their post inside a small house.

  Jordan is easily visible through the fence. Their soldiers patrol their side. We’re not supposed to approach the fence.

  We approach the fence.

  Every time I come, I count the Jordanian soldiers. I try to remember their faces. You never know what information might be useful. I think of the daring Eli Cohen who spied on the Syrians until he was caught and executed. Or the legendary Yosef Trumpeldor, who died defending Tel-Chai, a Galilee settlement, against Arab raiders in the 1920s. In school, when we study the heroes who helped found Israel, our teachers always remind us how easy we have it compared to what they had to deal with.

  If I ever see anything unusual at the fence, I’ll tell Gideon and he’ll tell his commander. There’s one soldier in particular that I see here a lot. He’s a little older than most of the usual patrollers, short and slightly fat. Every time he spots me, he winks. One time, he looked over his shoulder and when he saw that no one was looking, he tossed over a small wrapped candy. He had a strong arm and good aim. The candy landed a few feet from me. I scooped it up and examined it closely. The wrapper was covered in Arabic writing. It looked foreign and menacing, but when I unwrapped it, the smell of rose blossoms wafted from it like a dream. I looked up and the soldier grinned at me. I couldn’t help smiling back. I wonder if it’s okay that I am kind of friendly with a Jordanian.

  The Jordanians are led by King Hussein. His grandfather, King Abdullah, was killed seventeen years ago when he came to pray at the Temple Mount in East Jerusalem. An assassin shot him because he was considering peace with Israel. King Hussein was twelve years old at the time, my age, and standing at his grandfather’s side when the king was shot.

  My soldier is not at the fence today.

  A different soldier sees us. He hitches his rifle, then slings it off his shoulder. Yossi squeaks in fear.

  “Let’s get out of here!”

  My friend turns and runs. I wait a beat, glaring at the soldier. We lock eyes. My heart thumps in my chest. My brain is telling me: Go, run away. The soldier’s face is flat, blank, but his eyes glint darkly. He holds his rifle in both hands, staring me down. My legs ignore my mind. My fists clench by my sides.

  On the other side of that fence is the rest of Jerusalem, the heart and soul of my people. The Old City. King David’s tower. The Mount of Olives. And most importantly, the Western Wall. It’s part of the retaining wall from the Temple, destroyed first by the Babylonians and a second, final time by the Romans two thousand years ago. It is the holiest and most important place for all Jews. We pray in synagogue facing east, the direction of the Western Wall. We end every Passover meal with the pledge “Next year in Jerusalem!” We don’t mean West Jerusalem. We mean the Western Wall.

  Jordan controls it. And they won’t let us Jews near it. When we lost the Old City in the War of Independence, all the Jews fled into West Jerusalem, and no one’s been allowed back to the Old City since.

  So I stand there and glare at the soldier. He stares flatly back at me. He spits to the side, then lifts his rifle, taking aim at me. My heart races so fast, it feels like it will explode in my chest, saving the soldier a bullet. Run, run, my mind screams. But my knees are locked. I can’t move. I watch the soldier as if in slow motion. The barrel slowly lifts, the empty black hole coming up.

  Suddenly, someone grabs my arm and yanks me hard. I spin, breaking eye contact with the soldier. Yossi has me. He tugs hard, pulling me off balance. I trip and stumble to keep to my feet. He pants, “Move, Motti, move!”

  My knees unlock. My feet finally listen to my screaming mind. We fly out of there.

  Chapter Three

  Post Office War Cabinet

  “Did you hear the latest joke about the prime minister?” the man in line at the post office asks my dad. “He’s at a café and the waitress asks, ‘Tea or coffee?’ Eshkol thinks and thinks. Finally he holds out his cup and says, ‘Some of each.’”

  “Please, that’s an old one.” It’s a long line, and the post office is hot and stuffy.

  “Okay, so how about this? Eshkol says to a crowd of American businessmen, ‘Want to know how to make a small fortune in Israel? Start with a big one.’”

  “Ha, ha. I’ve heard that one too.” The jokes are getting less funny. Everyone was already unhappy with our unpopular, hesitant prime minister. His recent uninspiring speech on the radio hasn’t helped. The Egyptian army is at our border and Nasser, their charismatic president, has demanded that the UN peacekeeping force on the border leave. Stationed between Israel and Egypt, those peacekeepers are literally keeping peace. No UN, no peace. There’s a feeling of tension and fear in the air. Everyone’s preoccupied with news, never missing the hourly update while our government leaders argue and hesitate.

  Gideon has not been home in days. His leave was cancelled and he had to return to the base early. I’ve heard my parents talking. Their low, worried voices keep me awake late into the night.

  “Abba, are we going to war?” I ask. I try to sound brave and unconcerned, not like Beni the other day.

  “No,” my dad says. “As long as the UN forces stay put, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” the man in front of us says. He has thin white hair that floats around his head like a dandelion puff. I can’t help noticing the blue-green tattooed scrawl of numbers on his arm. He’s a concentration camp survivor.

  “What?” asks my dad.

  “They just announced it on the radio. All UN forces are leaving Egypt.” He has a sharp Hungarian accent.

  I look at my dad.

  “Abba, now are we going to war?”

  He presses his lips together until his mouth turns into a thin
white line.

  “We’re still a long way from war.”

  “Not that long, my friend,” the Hungarian says in a mocking voice. “Mark my words: the UN pulls out, the Egyptian tanks start rolling across the Negev into Israel.”

  “No, no,” says the woman behind us. She’s wearing a purple housedress and thick-soled shoes. “The Americans will put a stop to that.” From her accent I can tell she’s a Sabra like us, a native-born Israeli.

  “Wishful thinking,” says the Hungarian in front of us. “No one is coming to help us.”

  “You’re wrong!” says a thin man in a white button-down shirt and black trousers, an Iraqi Jew. “The Russians are behind this business with Egypt, so the Americans will back us, even if it’s just to cause trouble for the Russians.”

  “Mark my words: we’re going to be on our own,” says the know-it-all Hungarian. “We were on our own in Europe during the Holocaust, on our own here in 1948, and we’re on our own now. The Jews have no friends.”

  “How can you talk like that?” scoffs the woman behind my dad.

  The arguments continue as we scoot forward in line. Finally, it’s our turn. We buy a sheet of stamps and a package of aerograms. This stationery for overseas letters folds into thirds and the little flaps seal it into a self-contained envelope. My mom’s sister, Aunt Rachel, works in the Israeli embassy in Washington, D.C. My mom writes to her every week.

  My dad and I stop by the bakery on our way home. There is bread and several kinds of baked goods on the shelves: savory onion rolls, cheese-filled borekas, dry crumbly cookies, and yeasty chocolate rolls. My dad buys a loaf of bread and a large triangular boreka. He tucks the bread, wrapped in thin white paper, under his arm and hands me the paper bag with the savory pastry. I tear into it as we walk. Buttery crumbs and sesame seeds scatter at my feet. I hand him the other half and he bites into it, finishing it in two big gulps.

  I usually run these errands for my mom by myself or with Beni, but my dad woke up from his nap early today and offered to join me.