same year something else happened on Bruriaâs kibbutz.
There was another member, Orna, who was the former manager of the communal factory and the incarnation of a giant piece of earth-moving machinery in the body of a wiry woman with a shock of blond hair. Orna had her doubts about the wisdom of the security zone, but she didnât like protests at intersections. She also had a son, Eyal, her youngest, commanding a tank northeast of the Pumpkin, at the outpost called Basil. Protesting seemed like a betrayal.
Orna was living at the time with what she calls a âparalyzing fearâ about her son. People who know Orna, and nearly everyone in the Jordan Valley does, know she is not a woman easily paralyzed. Orna had a brother who died in the air force long before. She was kibbutz secretary in 1973 when the army notification teams showed up those five times at the gate. She knew what it looked like: a taxi with a few officers in dress uniforms come to knock on a door and enact the secret ritual at the countryâs heart. She called them the âgreen angels of death.â When her Eyal was born she named him for one of her friends, a kibbutz kid who died in the 1973 war.
Eyal was the same age as Alter, who died in the helicopter crash. They grew up together in the childrenâs house, which meant they were more like siblings than friends. Eyal showed up late to Alterâs funeral that February, armed and in uniform. He stood with the rest of the kibbutz and surprised his mother by bursting into tears. This was in the days of the debate about whether crying at funerals should be allowed, the real question being whether weâre still strong enough to survive here. There were generals who said soldiers shouldnât cry, but it turned out not to be the kind of thing you can regulate.
Eyal believed in the mission in Lebanon. He thought the Four Mothers didnât know what they were talking about, which is what all of the soldiers thought at the time, if they thought about it at all. Orna and Bruria had known each other for decades, but Orna didnât sign her friendâs petition.
Orna was in charge of gardening, and early one morning in September she was preparing one of the lawns for a kibbutz wedding. She had a Walkman clipped to her belt and listened to the radio through earphones as she worked. At 7 a.m. the announcer reported âheavy exchanges of fireâ in Lebanon, which was the code. She kept working.
A few days before, Eyal had asked her to set up a meeting with the kibbutz secretary the next time he came home on leave. Members were debating in those days whether the kibbutz should be privatized, and though most of the young people were in favor, Eyal wanted the secretary to know he wasnât. He liked the kibbutz the way it was. Orna walked over to the secretaryâs office to make an appointment.
The receptionist had her back to the door. She didnât turn around, and Orna asked her what was wrong. Nothing, the receptionist said, in Ornaâs recollection, and she still didnât turn around. The kibbutz secretary opened the door to his office and saw Orna. He closed the door. She walked out and met her brother-in-law, whose son was at Beaufort Castle. The kibbutz had a half-dozen kids on the line. She asked him if there was news from the castle, and he said no.
Orna wasnât stupid. She knew something had happened to one of the kids, even if she didnât know what everyone else didâthat it was hers, killed when a missile hit his tank at 6:25 a.m. She saw a taxi coming from the direction of the gate. In the back were figures in green. When the taxi passed the tennis court she finally understood what was about to happen to her and started running crazed across the pavement. She collapsed near the net. She doesnât remember much after that, only that when the green men reached her she was on the ground looking up, begging them to say he was just
There was another member, Orna, who was the former manager of the communal factory and the incarnation of a giant piece of earth-moving machinery in the body of a wiry woman with a shock of blond hair. Orna had her doubts about the wisdom of the security zone, but she didnât like protests at intersections. She also had a son, Eyal, her youngest, commanding a tank northeast of the Pumpkin, at the outpost called Basil. Protesting seemed like a betrayal.
Orna was living at the time with what she calls a âparalyzing fearâ about her son. People who know Orna, and nearly everyone in the Jordan Valley does, know she is not a woman easily paralyzed. Orna had a brother who died in the air force long before. She was kibbutz secretary in 1973 when the army notification teams showed up those five times at the gate. She knew what it looked like: a taxi with a few officers in dress uniforms come to knock on a door and enact the secret ritual at the countryâs heart. She called them the âgreen angels of death.â When her Eyal was born she named him for one of her friends, a kibbutz kid who died in the 1973 war.
Eyal was the same age as Alter, who died in the helicopter crash. They grew up together in the childrenâs house, which meant they were more like siblings than friends. Eyal showed up late to Alterâs funeral that February, armed and in uniform. He stood with the rest of the kibbutz and surprised his mother by bursting into tears. This was in the days of the debate about whether crying at funerals should be allowed, the real question being whether weâre still strong enough to survive here. There were generals who said soldiers shouldnât cry, but it turned out not to be the kind of thing you can regulate.
Eyal believed in the mission in Lebanon. He thought the Four Mothers didnât know what they were talking about, which is what all of the soldiers thought at the time, if they thought about it at all. Orna and Bruria had known each other for decades, but Orna didnât sign her friendâs petition.
Orna was in charge of gardening, and early one morning in September she was preparing one of the lawns for a kibbutz wedding. She had a Walkman clipped to her belt and listened to the radio through earphones as she worked. At 7 a.m. the announcer reported âheavy exchanges of fireâ in Lebanon, which was the code. She kept working.
A few days before, Eyal had asked her to set up a meeting with the kibbutz secretary the next time he came home on leave. Members were debating in those days whether the kibbutz should be privatized, and though most of the young people were in favor, Eyal wanted the secretary to know he wasnât. He liked the kibbutz the way it was. Orna walked over to the secretaryâs office to make an appointment.
The receptionist had her back to the door. She didnât turn around, and Orna asked her what was wrong. Nothing, the receptionist said, in Ornaâs recollection, and she still didnât turn around. The kibbutz secretary opened the door to his office and saw Orna. He closed the door. She walked out and met her brother-in-law, whose son was at Beaufort Castle. The kibbutz had a half-dozen kids on the line. She asked him if there was news from the castle, and he said no.
Orna wasnât stupid. She knew something had happened to one of the kids, even if she didnât know what everyone else didâthat it was hers, killed when a missile hit his tank at 6:25 a.m. She saw a taxi coming from the direction of the gate. In the back were figures in green. When the taxi passed the tennis court she finally understood what was about to happen to her and started running crazed across the pavement. She collapsed near the net. She doesnât remember much after that, only that when the green men reached her she was on the ground looking up, begging them to say he was just
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