thatâs what she herself said to Shimshi when she caught him trying to slip out of the house at two in the morning without her noticing, thinking sheâs some old lady who doesnât hear well anymore. Youâre an old man, sheâd told him, you donât have the strength for these kinds of wars anymore. Thatâs exactly why, heâd answered: because Iâm old I have nothing to lose. It wasnât that she didnât understand him: and how she understood him. But when a guy like him, with his intelligence, someone who cared about his kids and grandkids, about little Dudy just one month away from his bar mitzvah; how could he have planned all thatâfire and smoke, kidnapping the labor ministerâwithout breathing a word of it to her? Only someone bent on self-destruction would kidnap the minister of labor and social affairs and set an ultimatum for blowing himself and everything else up. Here in her living room the girls are shouting. What are they shouting about? she wonders. Only God can help them now, only He knows what will happen.
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In the backseat of the mobile communications van speeding toward the JerusalemâEtzion Bloc bypass road, Danny Benizri changed out of his blue shirt and into a black turtleneck he had in his bag, calculating that he had twenty minutes until he would be on the air again, twenty minutes until they would reach the tunnel. In those twenty minutes he would have to have a word with Tikvah, and calm his mother down. He knew he could not appear too elegant or self-satisfied; that would come off very badly on-screen if he were reporting from the field or even inside the tunnel, with all those explosives and everything. He was glad he had his khaki windbreaker along; it looked good, as though in the hustle-bustle of an emergency he had not had time to get it all together. Before he had even finished shoving his arm into his sleeve, his cell phone rang and he knew exactly what to expect. âWhat is it, Tikvah? Whatâs wrong?â he asked, feigning ignorance, because perhaps she had not heard the news yet and did not know what was happening. For a long moment he listened to the cries of Danny-Iâm-so-frightened she managed to slip in between sobs, and then said, âTikvah, calm down. First of all, calm down. Pretty soon the baby will start crying too. Oh, there, sheâs started up, see what youâve done? Thereâs nothing to be frightened about, you know Shimshi and his whole family, they wonât do a thing to me. Not to me or anybody else.â
For a moment she stopped wailing, but she reminded him what Shimshi had said on television, how he had threatened to blow himself up with everyone.
âSo he said he was going to blow himself up,â Danny said dismissively. âSo what if thatâs what he said. Havenât you learned anything yet? Itâs all for the purpose of attracting attention. Tell my mother, tell herâ¦calm her down, tell her everythingâs justâ¦tell her not toâ¦not to call me now.â Quickly, before she had time to start crying again, he asked about the vaccinations and the visit to the Mother & Child Clinic and the droplets of salt water that Tikvah had tried to drip into the babyâs nose on the recommendation of the pediatrician Tikvah adored and he could not stand. After that he looked at the rain-washed streets out the window of the van as it raced through the city. Who could have guessed that the morning would pass thus, beginning with talk about Tirzahâs death and ending with a mad dash to the bypass-road tunnel. Then again, the day was not over yet, nothing was over yet: at the entrance to the tunnel, not far from the parked police vans, black smoke was billowing from within, where Moshe Shimshi, in a gray woolen cap and blue dungarees, was waiting for him.
Zohar, the military correspondent, moved aside, his mouth askew. âThe asshole wonât let me in,â
Â
In the backseat of the mobile communications van speeding toward the JerusalemâEtzion Bloc bypass road, Danny Benizri changed out of his blue shirt and into a black turtleneck he had in his bag, calculating that he had twenty minutes until he would be on the air again, twenty minutes until they would reach the tunnel. In those twenty minutes he would have to have a word with Tikvah, and calm his mother down. He knew he could not appear too elegant or self-satisfied; that would come off very badly on-screen if he were reporting from the field or even inside the tunnel, with all those explosives and everything. He was glad he had his khaki windbreaker along; it looked good, as though in the hustle-bustle of an emergency he had not had time to get it all together. Before he had even finished shoving his arm into his sleeve, his cell phone rang and he knew exactly what to expect. âWhat is it, Tikvah? Whatâs wrong?â he asked, feigning ignorance, because perhaps she had not heard the news yet and did not know what was happening. For a long moment he listened to the cries of Danny-Iâm-so-frightened she managed to slip in between sobs, and then said, âTikvah, calm down. First of all, calm down. Pretty soon the baby will start crying too. Oh, there, sheâs started up, see what youâve done? Thereâs nothing to be frightened about, you know Shimshi and his whole family, they wonât do a thing to me. Not to me or anybody else.â
For a moment she stopped wailing, but she reminded him what Shimshi had said on television, how he had threatened to blow himself up with everyone.
âSo he said he was going to blow himself up,â Danny said dismissively. âSo what if thatâs what he said. Havenât you learned anything yet? Itâs all for the purpose of attracting attention. Tell my mother, tell herâ¦calm her down, tell her everythingâs justâ¦tell her not toâ¦not to call me now.â Quickly, before she had time to start crying again, he asked about the vaccinations and the visit to the Mother & Child Clinic and the droplets of salt water that Tikvah had tried to drip into the babyâs nose on the recommendation of the pediatrician Tikvah adored and he could not stand. After that he looked at the rain-washed streets out the window of the van as it raced through the city. Who could have guessed that the morning would pass thus, beginning with talk about Tirzahâs death and ending with a mad dash to the bypass-road tunnel. Then again, the day was not over yet, nothing was over yet: at the entrance to the tunnel, not far from the parked police vans, black smoke was billowing from within, where Moshe Shimshi, in a gray woolen cap and blue dungarees, was waiting for him.
Zohar, the military correspondent, moved aside, his mouth askew. âThe asshole wonât let me in,â
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