England, and all that I knew behind me, the forests and lakes of my youth, and left for a war in a country I had never glimpsed. You surely remember those times, Sareet, the hopes and dreams of our country weighed heavily on the shoulders of our armed forces, I know you felt it too: I remember the plane trip, touching down, the autumn heat—I had never before felt a hot breeze on my skin; the journey to the kibbutz, the volunteering, and finally the going to war, the victory, the coming back.
And I remember you, an orphan from Tel Aviv, adopted by the kibbutz after the death of your parents, our immediate connection, as if we already knew each other you said, the awe in your grey eyes, the pride and the desire, and the sadness, for it was a tough war with many losses, and the kibbutz lost too. Those young names, read out each year on the day cast aside for remembering, those names became a part of all of our lives in the years that followed, but for you they were already a part, for you knew them, the people who owned those names, you knew the loss of them. The comradery of that time still grips my heart! The never say die attitude of my comrades, the hot, endlessly long, never-ending autumn days, and the nights, the whispered plans, the waiting for dawn, and the cold that can descend on the desert at night.
Indeed, Avi’s words brought that time back to me, vividly, as if it was yesterday. I don’t feel under siege, he said, and when he spoke he faced the gardens of his youth, beyond them the sea he once made his own, and I watched his hand clench, he had placed it against the table, hard and brown, a hand that knew the sun, he clenched it into a tight fist. He didn’t look at me. I must be going, he said, the roads will be busy.
The next time I saw him was in the hospital, in Tel Aviv. You will come here, see him for yourself, and yet I must prepare you somewhat for what you will find. Avi returned to Tel Aviv that Saturday, he met a girl, a friend from his time in the army, Hagar was her name. He met Hagar and they went to a restaurant, to drink coffee—it seems that this is a popular thing to do in Tel Aviv.
It was a busy night, Saturday is a busy night here in the towns and cities. It’s only now as I write this that I remember that you, Sareet, are not a kibbutznik, indeed are from the city of Tel Aviv, you are familiar with the Saturday night ritual of “drinking coffee.” Avi and Hagar went to drink coffee last Saturday night, they could have had no inkling of what was to come.
He does not remember much—don’t worry I am not going to bombard you with gruesome images—what he felt at a particular moment, the red hot ball bearings searing into his flesh. I have not asked him and he turns away at the memory. I will merely give you the facts, unpleasant as they are: there was a bomb on the street next to where Avi and Hagar sat drinking coffee, they were sitting outside, that is important to note, for the fact that they sat outside saved Avi’s life. There is no doubt about it, a bomb has much greater effect in an enclosed area, those who chose to sit inside that night are now dead. After the explosion people panicked, rose to their feet, called out to each other, what was that, was it a bomb, it has to be a bomb, what direction did it come from, and already there was screaming and the sky was bright. Avi says there was a siren very quickly, how quickly I asked, I don’t know he said, but it surprised him just the same for it seemed to be straight after the noise.
The noise. That’s what he calls it, he doesn’t call it a bomb, or an explosion or any of the terms we use to describe such an event. The noise, he says, and then he turns away and fixes his eyes on the wall, on something he sees there, what I don’t know, but he stares at the wall, and it is some time before he turns to me again.
So Avi and Hagar got to their feet, she was frightened this girl, she called out to passersby. What is it,
And I remember you, an orphan from Tel Aviv, adopted by the kibbutz after the death of your parents, our immediate connection, as if we already knew each other you said, the awe in your grey eyes, the pride and the desire, and the sadness, for it was a tough war with many losses, and the kibbutz lost too. Those young names, read out each year on the day cast aside for remembering, those names became a part of all of our lives in the years that followed, but for you they were already a part, for you knew them, the people who owned those names, you knew the loss of them. The comradery of that time still grips my heart! The never say die attitude of my comrades, the hot, endlessly long, never-ending autumn days, and the nights, the whispered plans, the waiting for dawn, and the cold that can descend on the desert at night.
Indeed, Avi’s words brought that time back to me, vividly, as if it was yesterday. I don’t feel under siege, he said, and when he spoke he faced the gardens of his youth, beyond them the sea he once made his own, and I watched his hand clench, he had placed it against the table, hard and brown, a hand that knew the sun, he clenched it into a tight fist. He didn’t look at me. I must be going, he said, the roads will be busy.
The next time I saw him was in the hospital, in Tel Aviv. You will come here, see him for yourself, and yet I must prepare you somewhat for what you will find. Avi returned to Tel Aviv that Saturday, he met a girl, a friend from his time in the army, Hagar was her name. He met Hagar and they went to a restaurant, to drink coffee—it seems that this is a popular thing to do in Tel Aviv.
It was a busy night, Saturday is a busy night here in the towns and cities. It’s only now as I write this that I remember that you, Sareet, are not a kibbutznik, indeed are from the city of Tel Aviv, you are familiar with the Saturday night ritual of “drinking coffee.” Avi and Hagar went to drink coffee last Saturday night, they could have had no inkling of what was to come.
He does not remember much—don’t worry I am not going to bombard you with gruesome images—what he felt at a particular moment, the red hot ball bearings searing into his flesh. I have not asked him and he turns away at the memory. I will merely give you the facts, unpleasant as they are: there was a bomb on the street next to where Avi and Hagar sat drinking coffee, they were sitting outside, that is important to note, for the fact that they sat outside saved Avi’s life. There is no doubt about it, a bomb has much greater effect in an enclosed area, those who chose to sit inside that night are now dead. After the explosion people panicked, rose to their feet, called out to each other, what was that, was it a bomb, it has to be a bomb, what direction did it come from, and already there was screaming and the sky was bright. Avi says there was a siren very quickly, how quickly I asked, I don’t know he said, but it surprised him just the same for it seemed to be straight after the noise.
The noise. That’s what he calls it, he doesn’t call it a bomb, or an explosion or any of the terms we use to describe such an event. The noise, he says, and then he turns away and fixes his eyes on the wall, on something he sees there, what I don’t know, but he stares at the wall, and it is some time before he turns to me again.
So Avi and Hagar got to their feet, she was frightened this girl, she called out to passersby. What is it,
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