The Six-Day Hero (Israel) Page 4

  “Oh, Gideon forgot his book,” my mom says. “What a pity.”

  Gideon always likes to have a book with him. Unlike some soldiers who read westerns or sexy novels, Gideon never wants to waste his time. He says he wants to fill his mind with the best. A few years ago, my parents bought a set of pocket-sized editions of the greatest texts in Western literature translated into Hebrew. My brother is slowly making his way through the entire collection.

  “I’ll bring it to him,” I volunteer.

  “I’ll come too,” Beni chirps.

  We’ll take any excuse to go see Gideon at the base. We’re not allowed inside, of course. But it’s exciting to go to the gate guard and tell him we’re Gideon’s brothers. The guard radios someone on the base, and a few minutes later Gideon comes jogging over. It’s one thing to see him in his uniform at home, but it’s another to see him on the base. Jeeps drive around. There are heavy guns and a general air of toughness and efficiency. I can’t wait until I’m eighteen.

  I glance at the book my mom has handed me, All Quiet on the Western Front. It has a sketch of a sad-looking soldier on the cover. I skim the summary on the back. It’s a war novel, which I like. Maybe I’ll read it after Gideon finishes it.

  “They might not be able to get it to him,” my mom warns us. “I’m sure they’re extremely busy.”

  “I know,” I say. “Worst case, we’ll leave it with the guard at the gate.”

  My mom kisses the top of my head.

  “You’re a sweet boy,” she says.

  Though the bus for our route should come every ten minutes, Beni and I wait nearly an hour. Many of the buses have been lent to the military to move troops. With almost all the drivers now called up to active duty, Egged, the national bus service, has pulled former drivers out of retirement. We board the blue-and-cream colored bus and I pay the driver, who is white-haired and wrinkled. His khaki Egged uniform hangs loosely on his frame. Beni and I find a seat together.

  The radio plays “Listener Favorites,” and listeners call in with requests. I nod my head to the beat. First Elvis. Then the Beatles. Beni and I share a grin. We love the Beatles. And then the new hit song, “Jerusalem of Gold,” comes on. The normal chatter stops. Naomi Shemer, a popular Israeli composer, wrote this love song to our divided city, a city of “gold and bronze and light.”

  Though the song has only been out a couple of weeks, everyone knows the words. Before long, the whole bus sings together. As if it’s a song we all knew somewhere in our hearts but had forgotten until Naomi Shemer set it free.

  Of course, Jerusalem is not a golden city at all. It’s white and gray and dirty. But the song fills us with hope and longing for the city that we dream of, a city filled with light, our spiritual home.

  The song ends, and there’s a loud beep from the radio announcing a news break. Everyone on the bus grows quiet. The same sharp expression of worry makes the people around us look almost alike.

  This just in: Charles de Gaulle, the president of France, says that his country will not give aid to Israel in the case of hostilities. Though France signed a commitment to Israel’s security, de Gaulle announces, “That was 1957. This is 1967.”

  The woman behind me gasps in horror. I think of the Holocaust survivor from the post office who predicted this: The Jews have no friends.

  Beni and I exchange glances.

  As soon as the announcer ends his news update, riders start debating the meaning of this.

  “We never should have sent Abba Eban, he can’t negotiate worth a damn!”

  “Without France behind us, England won’t back us either. Those Europeans stick together, just you watch.”

  “War is coming. There’s going to be war, and we’re going to fight alone. No one is coming to our rescue.”

  I can barely hear the next song over the shrill predictions.

  Beni’s eyes grow wider and wider. Luckily, our stop is next. My brother and I hurry off.

  “My stomach hurts,” he says, grabbing his belly and looking miserable.

  “Don’t let those guys scare you,” I say. “People like that are always too dramatic.”

  “No, I really have to go!”

  “What, they scared the poop out of you?”

  “No!” he says. “But I can’t help it.”

  “You have to hold it!” I scold. “There’s no place to go.”

  But I can tell he really does need to go. Beni always feels stress in his stomach. I look around—there’s not much cover. A long stretch of road, a bus-stop sign with a bench, and the barbed-wire fence running along the perimeter of the base.

  “Motti, this is an emergency,” he says desperately.

  Taking a leak against a tree is one thing. Dropping your pants and taking a dump in plain view is harder to do. Plus we don’t have any paper to wipe with.

  “We’re going to have to ask to go on the base,” I say. “There’s no other place to go.”

  Beni’s brown eyes are wide and worried.

  We walk along the barbed wire fence until we reach the front gate. The dirt is parched under our feet, and little puffs of dust rise behind us as we walk. A soldier immediately comes out to meet us.

  “We’re Gideon Laor’s brothers,” I say. “He left his book at home.”

  Beni elbows me, giving me an urgent look.

  “And my little brother really needs to use the facilities,” I say in my most polite voice.

  “No civilians allowed,” the soldier says in a bored tone. His hair is shaggy and his uniform is wrinkled and slouchy.

  “Please,” I say, “it’s an emergency.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t let you boys in.”

  Beni moans. He reaches back and clutches his behind, as if he could physically stop the poop from coming out. The soldier’s eyes grow wide as the severity of the situation becomes clear to him.

  “You’re going to have a mess here,” I warn. “He’s only six, he can’t hold it much longer.”

  “Who’s your older brother again?” the guard asks.

  “Gideon Laor,” I say.

  “I think I know Gideon,” he says, a bit uncertainly. “Wait here.” He goes inside the little guard shack and grabs the handheld radio. He talks into it, listens to the garbled reply. He looks at us with narrowed eyes. Beni hops a little in anxious anticipation.

  “I really need to go!” he calls out.

  “It’s okay,” I tell my brother. “He’ll let us in. If not,” I raise my voice, “we’ll find a tree or something.” I know the soldier heard me because he makes a face. He talks a little more animatedly into the radio. Beni and I exchange hopeful looks.

  The guard comes out again. “Your brother’s on his way. He’ll take you to the bathroom. But as soon as you flush, you have to come right back out.” He leans close, putting his face right in front of ours. “You’re really not allowed inside. We’re doing this as a special favor. You understand?”

  Beni and I both nod vigorously. This is amazing! I want to kiss Beni. I wish I had thought of this strategy before. We’re going onto Gideon’s base! I do my best to keep a grin of excitement off my face, but something must show because the soldier gives a small smile. He understands.

  A minute later, Gideon comes jogging up. I worry that he’ll be angry, but he’s smiling.

  “Hey, you rascals,” he says.

  “I hear there’s a big emergency.”

  “I have to go, Gideon! I feel it coming out!”

  “No time to waste, then.” He places a hand on Beni’s shoulder, and I walk on his other side. I stand a little taller and try to look like I belong.

  The base is hopping. Soldiers in uniform hurry from place to place. The buildings are made of corrugated metal walls and have low, curved roofs. Sand-colored jeeps are parked in neat rows. I try to remember everything. As soon as I turn eighteen, I’m going to volunteer for a combat unit—maybe paratroopers, the elite fighters who are the first to rush into battle. A unit in tight formation jogs by us,
shouting out refrains to the beat of their boot falls.

  “The mess hall’s over there,” Gideon says, pointing at one building. “Barracks over there,” he points over to another building.

  “Bathroom!” Beni reminds him.

  “Over here.” We enter a small building and walk down a narrow corridor. It smells like machine oil, sweat, and coffee. There are lots of doors on either side. We pass a door that’s open, and I peek in. Rows of desks with soldiers poring over reports and maps. I try to see what they’re looking at, but Gideon pulls me forward.

  “Here, Beni,” he says and opens the door to the men’s room. The smell of urine hits us. Beni makes a face. “Get used to it, kid,” Gideon says with a grin. “One day you’ll just be happy that there’s an actual latrine to use and not a hole in the ground.” He pushes Beni in and closes the door after him. The two of us stand outside the door.

  “You’re something else, Motti,” my brother says, ruffling my hair. “Did you put Beni up to this?”

  “No!” I say indignantly. “I was taking care of him! He would have crapped his pants if I didn’t convince the guard to let us in.”

  “Watch the language,” Gideon says, smacking the back of my head. “You’re not in the army yet.”

  A female soldier hurries by, carrying a tall stack of folders. She does a double take when she sees me.

  “The recruits get younger and younger,” she says.

  Gideon grins back, his annoyance with me instantly gone. “Dorit, this is my brother, Motti.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. It has not escaped me that Dorit is beautiful, with striking green eyes and a heart-shaped face. Of course she knows Gideon. She can’t take her eyes off my brother.

  “I see the resemblance,” she says, with a flirting look. “Handsome men must run in the family.”

  The tops of my cheeks turn hot and red.

  “Motti is much better looking,” Gideon says easily. “And wait until you see my youngest brother. Beni is going to be a real heartbreaker.”

  That’s the thing about my brother. He might pound me or tease me when it’s just the family, but if there’s anyone else around, he only heaps praise.

  “There’s another Laor boy?” Dorit asks.

  “We’re the Three Musketeers,” Gideon says, putting his arm around me. “My brothers are the best.” Gideon is a head taller than me. My mom keeps promising I’ll hit a growth spurt, but at this moment, I’m glad at how well I fit under my brother’s arm. I lean my head against his warm, strong chest. His voice rumbles in my ear.

  “I can see that,” Dorit says with a real smile. “But Captain Levy is looking for you. You guys have your chem drill.”

  Gideon straightens with a jolt.

  “Can you keep an eye on Motti for five minutes?” he asks. “I got to run.”

  Dorit hesitates, the happy look on her face freezing.

  “They’re leaving as soon as my little brother finishes in there. I’d walk them out, but I can’t stay.” He flashes a crooked grin at her. “Be a pal.”

  She sighs and gives him a rueful smile.

  “You’re the best,” he tells Dorit, giving her a quick friendly pat on the shoulder before she can change her mind.

  Gideon gives me a brief, hard hug. I take a deep breath of his smell: starchy uniform, soap, metal, and sweat.

  “Be good,” he tells me quietly. Then he takes off, hurrying to join his unit. In fact, everyone on base seems to be in a hurry. There’s a buzzing energy in the air.

  Without Gideon here, Dorit and I look at each other with nothing to say. Dorit shifts impatiently, transferring the stack of files she’s holding from one arm to the other.

  “So, you’re ten years old?” she asks, trying to make small talk.

  “I’m twelve!” I say, insulted.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  We stand silently for a couple of achingly slow, awkward minutes.

  “Do you need to go check on your little brother?” she suggests testily.

  “He knows what to do in there,” I say.

  There’re no sounds coming from the bathroom. No toilet flushing or faucet running. Dorit taps her foot nervously. Her boots are meticulously shiny. I have to resist the urge to scuff one with my sandal.

  “You sure he’s okay in there?” she asks.

  “Yes. He always takes a long time.”

  She glances at her watch.

  “Motti, listen, I can’t wait much longer. The colonel is waiting for these files. This is really not a good time.”

  “You can go,” I say. “I’ll wait here for Beni and then we’ll leave straight away.”

  She hesitates.

  “It’s okay,” I say. I give her my most charming and trustworthy smile. “I know the way out.”

  She looks at her watch again, then scans the hallway, but there’s no one else around for her to foist us onto. All the doors are closed. There’s no one but us in the corridor.

  “Really,” I say. “We’re fine here. Sometimes he sits on the toilet for half an hour.”

  Her eyes widen in horror.

  “As soon as he’s out, you have to leave,” she says in a low voice. “Do you understand? This is a closed base, and you know the situation we’re under.”

  I nod solemnly.

  “We cannot afford distractions. Everyone is very busy; the base is on high alert.”

  “As soon as Beni’s out, we’ll go,” I promise her. “We were never planning to come in at all. It was an emergency.” I put on my best serious and dependable look. “He’s only six.”

  “Okay. I’m trusting you,” she says.

  I nod again, and she buys it. Adjusting her grip on the files, she hurries down the hall.

  Three minutes later, I hear the toilet flush and the pipes clanging as Beni washes hands. He comes out, drying his hands on his shorts. He freezes when he sees there’s only me waiting for him.

  “Where’s Gideon?” he asks.

  “He had to go,” I say, a smile slowly spreading across my face. “But we can stay.”

  Chapter Six

  No Sense of Direction

  Beni and I walk out of the building. I’ve always wanted to know what goes on at a military base, and this is the best chance I’m ever going to get.

  I stand outside the heavy metal door, breathing in the atmosphere. There’s a slight tang of something burning. I can hear distant rifle shots. Gideon told me there’s a firing range on the base. Some of the units must be practicing. The base feels swollen, like there are too many people for the space. But there’s a sense of intense focus, not as much worry and panic as on the bus ride.

  “I thought we were supposed to leave,” Beni says when he sees I’m in no hurry to return to the gate.

  “Oh, yes, we are. But . . .” I slide a glance over at him. “What can we do? We have a bad sense of direction.” I shake my head slowly. “A very bad sense of direction.”

  Beni’s mouth forms a perfect “O” of understanding. A slow smile spreads across his impish face.

  “Where to first?” he asks. I grin at my brilliant little brother.

  It’s a large base, black tarmac spreading out in all directions. There’s a large silver hangar with massive doors rolled shut.

  “There,” I say, pointing toward the hangar. “Let’s go see what’s in there.”

  The number-one rule for sneaking is not to scurry. Don’t look over your shoulder. Don’t act sneaky. Of course, it’s hard to “blend in” on base since we’re the only ones not in uniform, and also a foot shorter than everyone else. So I basically need us to be invisible. Which means we can’t stand exposed on the tarmac. We hug the building, staying close to its metallic walls. I’m counting on the fact that everyone is too caught up in their own mission to really pay attention. My plan is to leapfrog from building to building until we can get to the hangar and peek inside those giant metal doors.

  But I underestimate the army.

  We’re only at the second bui
lding on the way to the hangar when someone shouts, “Hey! What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t turn around,” I whisper to Beni. “Just keep going.”

  “Stop!” the man yells.

  Beni’s eyes bug out of his head, and his grip crushes my hand. The other hand goes to his stomach, as if it’s cramping.

  “Relax!” I hiss at him.

  I casually look over my shoulder to see who’s shouting. A sergeant glares at us from the doorway of an adjacent building. I wave happily. His expression wavers.

  There’s a building in front of us. Without hesitating, I open the door and pull Beni in behind me.

  “What are we doing here?” he whispers. “What is this place?”

  “I don’t know, doesn’t matter. We had to get out of sight. Come on!” I tug Beni behind me, pulling us deeper down the hallway. I try every door along the way, but they’re all locked. The main building door swings open, and the sergeant comes in after us.

  The next door I try opens.

  “Here!” I hiss to Beni and pull him inside.

  There are five or six people in the room huddled over two military radios, chain smoking. A gray cloud fills the top third of the room. The military radios crackle gibberish, each garbled transmission ending with “Over.” A civilian radio in the corner is tuned to GALATZ, the military public-radio station. It plays patriotic songs at low volume.

  I can’t tell if the soldiers crouching over the radios really understand what the incoming messages say, but they exchange looks every so often and jot something down on spiral pads.

  Suddenly, someone grabs Beni and me by the upper arms and yanks us out of the radio room.

  The sergeant shakes me hard enough to make my head snap. My teeth catch and clink together.

  “Leave him alone!” Beni shouts. “Let him go!” He rams himself against the large man. The soldier, now enraged, lets go of me with one hand and grabs Beni, wrenching him like a rag doll by the arm.

  “Don’t touch my brother!” I scream and kick the man in the knee. He grunts but doesn’t let go.

  “What the hell is going on here?” A major steps out of one of the locked rooms. He’s completely bald and has the wide, stocky build of a wrestler.

  “Sir,” the sergeant says breathlessly, “I found these kids wandering around the base. I just pulled them out of the communication room.”